


Heavy Crown

by hcope



Series: The8 Ships 30K Agenda [1]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Asthma Attacks, Bodyguard The8, Kidnapping, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Prince Jeonghan, Sharing a Bed, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-08-20 06:07:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 28,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20223055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hcope/pseuds/hcope
Summary: Even if Jeonghan’s own body is feeble, his right hand is strong. Merciless. A heart of iron born with a knife between his teeth. No one has made an attempt on Jeonghan’s life in seven years – they have talked enough about it, certainly, but no one has actually tried their luck since Minghao came to be known as his. His guard dog. His sentinel and protector. His Whisper in the Dark.He is the most feared murderer and thief Jeonghan’s kingdom has known in a century.And he is the kindest, warmest, dearest person Jeonghan has ever known.If only he could call him his in the way he wishes most.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is intended in roughly the same spirit as Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter.
> 
> Basically, this is fiction. A portion of fandom tends to blur the line between actual, real people/celebrity personas and fictionalized versions of those personas that might be employed in storytelling. I want to, for the purpose of my stories, un-blur that line. I am not writing about real people; I am writing about fictional characters whose personalities are inferred from public personas and, yes, borrow the names and likenesses of real people but are fictional characters all the same. Nothing here is meant to depict the actual idols of Seventeen (or any other group/individual) in any way. This work bears absolutely no intent to suggest that anything included herein is a representation of reality, even when elements of real world circumstances (“idol ‘verse” fics) and events are depicted. None of this is speculation or aspersion – it is merely a story.
> 
> If you create or consume art using the likenesses of real people, please don’t confuse the art with the actual, real person. Please respect the dignity and privacy of these idols in the real world. If you care about these people, maintain the separation of fanworks/fantasies and reality; it’s what allows us to let our imaginations run wild and creativity carry us away without being absolute dicks at the same time.
> 
> That being said, I hope you do enjoy the fic.
> 
> Warnings: This fic includes intense symptoms of a chronic medical condition (asthma attacks, though not explicitly stated as such within the narrative), as well as violence, kidnapping, imprisonment, repeated non-graphic discussion of brands/branding, violence against someone with a debilitating medical condition which triggers an attack, and some unhealthy internal dialogue/self-perception from the perspective character.
> 
> … It’s a cute love story.

Jeonghan wakes up warm, with his face pressed to rough cotton. He smiles, eyes closed, and shifts closer to the body next to him, endeavoring to make his movements seem sleep-lagged and unassuming so as not to alert his bedmate to his waking.

Of course, Minghao catches him out anyway.

“If you’re awake now, Sire, I should be going,” he says, his voice soft as the silk beneath Jeonghan’s head. His accent is more pronounced in the mornings than he lets it be during the day. Jeonghan is incandescently glad that Minghao has not lost his own way of speaking entirely, despite the long years he has spent in the capital.

Jeonghan doesn’t respond verbally, maintaining the ruse and moving closer still, tangling their legs together in the sheets and wrapping an arm over Minghao’s shoulder. They are pressed almost flush from where Jeonghan’s head is tucked below Minghao’s chin all the way down to their thighs, front-to-front, the way Jeonghan likes it best, so that Minghao will tie his arms around Jeonghan and play with his hair. Minghao does so now, long fingers brushing gently through the tangled strands, tugging lightly at the ends when Jeonghan still makes no move to reply to him. Jeonghan feels his grin widen, delighted by the attention, and pushes closer with a sigh.

If there is a more decadent way to wake up, Jeonghan cannot imagine it.

“Jeonghan,” Minghao whispers, leaning down to press his mouth to the crown of Jeonghan’s head.

Ah, there it is. He got it out of him faster than he normally does – perhaps Minghao is still feeling benevolent after last night’s chess game. Beating your prince so handily is hardly patriotic.

Jeonghan makes a mumbling, sleepy noise to signal to Minghao that he is attentive despite his outward appearance. Minghao tugs on his hair again, but so gently Jeonghan barely feels it, so gently Jeonghan wishes he would tug harder because he can, because Jeonghan would let him, because Jeonghan wants him to take those kinds of liberties – and that is exactly why Minghao never will.

Jeonghan sighs again, less contentedly this time, and blinks his eyes open. Minghao’s shirt fills his vision, pale violet and moving lightly as Minghao breathes. The fabric is old and thinning enough that, in the right light, Jeonghan can see clean through it. He looks away, sitting up with great effort and displeasure as he loses Minghao’s body heat and is hit by the morning chill.

He shivers, and Minghao presses a hand to his back, warm and firm. Jeonghan looks down at him, still lying in Jeonghan’s bed, looking painfully perfect there.

“Good morning, Sire,” Minghao murmurs, keeping his voice low. Back to “sire” already. Pity.

“Good morning, Minghao,” Jeonghan returns, more briskly, on the defensive because he has to be. “What have you to do today?”

Minghao drops his hand and draws it back across Jeonghan’s waist, tucking it against his own chest. Jeonghan watches it jealously for a moment, then looks away.

“I promised Jihoon I would help him put on a demonstration for some of the newer knights,” Minghao says, words flowing from his tongue in the way they only do before he blunts his syllables for the day, always mindful of the perceptions of others, no matter how often Jeonghan tells him he likes the way he speaks just fine.

Or maybe he likes it more than fine, and maybe Minghao knows that, and maybe that is why he does not do as Jeonghan bids him and instead hides away the parts of him that Jeonghan likes best.

Minghao is, by far, the pragmatist between them – at least in this.

“That sounds like fun,” Jeonghan says, falsely bright, grinning at him. He gestures at himself, tamping down on the temptation to grab Minghao’s hand and pull it back by distracting himself. “I, on the other hand, have preparations for the masque _all day_ today.”

Minghao wrinkles his nose, feigning disgust on Jeonghan’s behalf, the expression half lost in the downy pillow and the fall of his hair.

Gods, he’s pretty.

“So,” Jeonghan continues, in a voice slightly louder than before, pulling away to the edge of the bed as he fixes his gaze on the far side of the room, “you are absolutely right; I really should be up now. There’s so much to do. Seating arrangements, decorations to supervise, a last minute costume fitting to attend – I am completely swamped today.”

He can see, in the corner of his eye, as Minghao rolls over and slides off the bed on the other side in a single, smooth motion. His shirt, the laces mostly undone, would reveal a great deal if Jeonghan let himself look. He doesn’t.

“That is a shame,” Minghao says, the better part of his accent already smoothing away. He begins doing up his shirt while Jeonghan fusses with the bedsheet where his hands have fallen at his sides. “It promises to be a beautiful sunset, and I was hoping you might wish to go for a ride this evening.”

“I have time for a ride,” Jeonghan says quickly. He sounds eager, but Minghao knows him well enough to assume that Jeonghan is simply excited by the prospect of getting outside the palace grounds for a spell … hopefully. “I should finish up by sundown.”

“Then I will have the horses prepared,” Minghao says. He is standing in the center of the room now, presentable once again and waiting patiently for Jeonghan to dismiss him.

Jeonghan doesn’t want to. He wants to tell Minghao to stay here, in his bedroom, and climb back beneath the sheets with him. He wants to tell Minghao to stop standing on ceremony and kiss him, like he knows – _hopes_ – Minghao wants to. He wants to tell Minghao to run his fingers through his hair again and never leave, to promise to always be here, like this, and to love Jeonghan forever.

He can say none of those things, though. He can have none of those things.

“Be off with you then,” Jeonghan says, waving a hand behind himself carelessly, sending Minghao off without turning to look at him. “I can’t have my Whisper lazing around like a spoiled cat.”

When Minghao leaves, it is silent; his steps make no sound and the door opens and closes without a creak. Jeonghan lifts his hand and smacks it down upon the bed, thoroughly unsatisfied with the lack of noise the action generates. His fingers curl into the sheet, twisting the fabric up into snarls that will surely wrinkle. No matter; the sheets will be changed before he sees them again anyway, wrinkles washed away along with Minghao’s scent, and who knows when he will have another opportunity to lie in it.

He tries not to let himself orchestrate excuses to get Minghao into his bed, but, when it happens, he is loath to let him go. This time, Minghao himself insisted on sleeping in Jeonghan’s chambers, a rare occurrence indeed, and it took surprisingly little effort to persuade him to sleep beside Jeonghan instead of making his bed on the floor. Jeonghan’s well-being coming into peril is the only guaranteed way to garner Minghao’s _close_ and _unmitigated_ care. Death threats are no laughing matter, of course, but Jeonghan will gladly have his life threatened if it means he has Minghao’s undivided attention.

Today, though, the guard has been doubled in response to the information they gathered and Minghao will have his own devices in place to ensure Jeonghan’s safety. He will not sleep here again tonight.

Jeonghan stands, not allowing himself to linger any longer. He truly does have a great deal to do today. The masquerade ball is in four days and, with his mother occupied by talks with the eastern shores and his father away for another two days on his charity tour, the brunt of the work falls to Jeonghan to oversee.

There is much to do and little time to do it in. He cannot afford distraction.

He calls for Mingyu, already moving to his wardrobe to fetch clothes for the day. As he passes his desk, he plucks a single bloom from the delicate bundle of star-lace that Minghao brought him last night, still bright and almost twinkling even hours later. Minghao has a way with flowers, as though nature itself approves of him and bends itself to his whim.

If only his parents shared that sentiment. If only they did not have reason not to do so.

No matter. Jeonghan is a prince, and he will act like one. The fragile petals of the flower fan out, blue and silver and velvet-soft, against his skin when he tucks the blossom inside his shirt, knowing it will keep its shape and color even if he accidentally crushes it against his chest. They always do. He laces up his shirt, hiding it from view and securing it with an extra loop of string, just as Mingyu enters the room with his breakfast.

He can act the part, keep what matters hidden. He has gotten good at it over the last seven years. Maybe, if he maintains the façade for long enough, it will become true that his heart has not already been settled into the hands of a thief and killer from the midlands with a brand on his neck.

Jeonghan laughs, ignoring Mingyu’s inquiring glance. Maybe this, maybe that, but maybes have never done anyone much good. Minghao may be the pragmatist when it comes to what does or does not lie between them, but Jeonghan is immensely practical in his own right. He knows his role and he is aware of the boundaries he and Minghao both must accept. He is all too aware of those boundaries.

But who knows, maybe a miracle will happen, and Jeonghan will get his way for once.

Or maybe he will learn to let go of what he cannot have.

Maybe he will learn to be happy like this, and maybe it is better for them both if he does.

Maybe, in the end, it does not matter what Jeonghan wants and maybe he should learn to embrace that fact once and for all. Maybe he will.

But, then again, Jeonghan admits, smiling ruefully as he leans over the wash basin, pausing when his gaze snags on the burst of silver-blue in the corner of his eye, he knows himself and he knows – probably not.

~~~

The only good thing about being in charge of decorations is that Jeonghan has the pleasure of watching dozens of servants dart about the grand ballroom at his every whim. He rarely sees such a response from the palace staff – years of mischief and mild insurrection against his parents have resulted in a blanket decree not to listen to him for any request that falls more than in inch outside of the ordinary. Normally, only Mingyu listens to him this well, but now even Joshua is attentive and receptive. It is almost worth the hassle.

Almost.

“What next on the agenda, Lord Jisoo?” Jeonghan asks, bored to distraction already. He has chosen more floral arrangements in the past five hours than he has ever seen in all the rest of his life. They cannot possible need this many flowers. It’s only a dance, after all; who cares what color the roses are?

Joshua rolls his eyes, unimpressed with the nickname as always. “Tablecloths, Sire,” he says, glancing down at the sheet of parchment in his hands – sheets, actually, probably a hundred of them, all crammed with Joshua’s tiny, illegible handwriting.

“Just use whichever ones we used last time,” Jeonghan tells him. “There. Done.”

“And the ice sculptures?” Joshua asks.

“Roses, to match the flowers.” Jeonghan has a theme going here, and that theme is roses. Themes are an absolutely excellent shortcut in the decision-making process.

“And you _are_ certain about the roses, Sire?” Joshua inquires, paging through his notes again. “Your mother prefers dahlias, usually – the royal flower?” he says the last as a question, as though Jeonghan is unaware of what the royal flower is.

“And I prefer roses,” Jeonghan says firmly. “And, as the queen has left me in charge, since my poor father abandoned us on the very eve of this great celebration, roses we shall have.”

“The bloom of young love,” Joshua says mildly, looking down and scrawling something upon his papers. “Appropriate, I suppose.” He does not glance up at Jeonghan, but he does not need to. His insinuation is plain.

Jeonghan chooses not to rise to that bait. He knows what his parents hope for four evenings hence, and he knows equally well that they shall not have it. These sorts of things are so old fashioned, anyway. Nobody chooses their spouse by dancing with them at a fancy party these days; Jeonghan wants someone who can keep up with him, physically and verbally, not someone who smiles pretty and ingratiates themselves to the nobility.

“Is there anything else you need me for, Joshua?” Jeonghan asks pointedly. “Or can you handle things from here?”

“You have been much more diligent than your father ever is, so I am certain I will be able to manage the rest of the details,” Joshua says, finally looking up again and smiling at Jeonghan benignly.

Jeonghan’s eyebrows shoot up. “You mean to tell me that Father does _not_ usually assist you in planning these events?”

Joshua shrugs and spools his parchments up into a tight roll. “It is technically his duty, as prince, but no, he rarely participates much beyond informing me that I have free reign to do as I please.”

Jeonghan feels about like he could throttle someone right now. Five hours he has spent on this gods-forsaken party, _five hours_, and all of it unnecessary.

Gods _fuck_, that’s irritating.

“Why did you not tell me this before, Joshua?” Jeonghan demands, biting the words out between clenched teeth.

“Her Majesty thought it would do you good to … take responsibility for something for once,” Joshua says, maintaining his calm and unaffected demeanor. He glances behind Jeonghan, though, and shifts his weight, clearly preparing to run. “Her words,” he adds quickly, at the look on Jeonghan’s face.

“Oh, I’ll take responsibility,” Jeonghan spits. “I’ll take it straight to –”

“If this is how you react to responsibility, dear, it can be no wonder to you why you see so little of it,” a familiar voice calls out, the sound echoing and carrying throughout the hall.

The servants scatter like wildflower seeds in a strong wind, vanishing in mere seconds to give the Queen privacy while she scolds her son – what other reason could she have, after all, to speak to him?

Jeonghan turns to face her slowly, fixing an overly-large smile upon his face. “Mother,” he greets. “I thought you were busy all day.”

“I have a few moments to attend to my son,” she says, gliding toward him the way she always does – like an oncoming storm. “I heard you were doing well, but I am here not a minute and I see you losing your temper … again.”

“I did not lose my temper,” Jeonghan disagrees, seething and trying not to show it, for all the good his façade will do. “I was merely expressing to Joshua my displeasure at –”

“Kings do not express their displeasure verbally, Jeonghan,” Mother interrupts him, his mouth closing with a snap. “They command the room and all in it with a glance.”

“You certainly express your displeasure with _me_ verbally,” Jeonghan mutters.

“You, I am grooming to rule,” Mother says flatly, “not governing as a sovereign. The time will come when I will not be here to remind you of these things; I must make the most of the time I have to impart these lessons to you – and so should you.”

“I am attentive, Mother,” Jeonghan says coldly. “But I do not see how selecting napkins and watching the floors be swept will make me a better king.”

“We must begin somewhere,” Mother says, eyeing him up and down. She reaches out and tugs on his collar, her expression dissatisfied. “I do wish you would dress more appropriately,” she says, frowning at him. “These peasant shirts are uncouth.”

“It’s just a shirt, Mother, and I am just a man; it suits me,” Jeonghan says, pulling away from her hold. He rolls his shoulders, looking away as her hand drops to her side.

“You are not just a man, though,” she says, “you are the crown prince. You are a symbol of this nation, and though the time has not yet come when you must rule it, you are already bound to represent it, to lead by example and to uphold tenants of decency, valor, and propriety.”

Jeonghan barely restrains himself from a scoff at that. Of course that is what this is about. What else would be on her mind four days from his first Summer Solstice Ball as the officially coronated crown prince?

“Do not worry, Mother, I will dance with all the princesses you have managed to persuade into coming out for this royal waste of funds,” Jeonghan says bitterly. “And I promise not to step on anyone’s feet.”

“Dance with the princes if you like,” Mother says, waving a hand, “we are far beyond caring about a natural heir at this point, since you have made your preferences so well known.” Her gaze slides to Joshua, who has, throughout this exchange, remained silent and still just far enough away to not appear to be eavesdropping, though he no doubt is.

This time, Jeonghan does scoff.

“Please, Mother, surely you know better than to listen to rumor,” he sneers, slipping into open hostility now and unable – or unwilling, perhaps; it doesn’t matter either way – to stop himself. “Joshua is an honorable servant of the crown and nothing more. I would not do him the discourtesy of associating his character with mine in that way.”

“It matters not,” Mother says, sounding as though she actually means it, surprisingly. She steps forward again, smoothing the palm of her hand across Jeonghan’s shoulder, as though brushing away dirt. Jeonghan holds still, waiting for the other shoe to fall. She does not keep him waiting long. Leaning closer, she presses her lips to his forehead in a brief kiss. When she pulls back, her voice is low. “Mind your Whisper,” she murmurs, “or else prepare for him to be silenced.”

Jeonghan jerks back, staring at her wide-eyed.

Mother inclines her head, confirming that he heard her correctly. “You are not a child anymore, Jeonghan,” she says, sounding almost sympathetic for a moment. Then, from one breath to the next, the moment is gone, the warmth in her eyes replaced with steel. “So stop acting like it,” she says, her tone diamond-hard and sharp, and then, as abruptly as she came, in a sweep of royal purple, she leaves.

Almost instantly, as though they were waiting upon a signal, the servants swarm the hall once more, returning to their duties without a wayward look cast Jeonghan’s direction.

Jeonghan feels hollow. He did not think his … affections were so transparent. He did not think his preference for Minghao had come to his mother’s attention. He should have known better. Her silence thus far was not an indication of lack of awareness, and he was foolish to think it so.

“Sire,” Joshua says, softly, stepping into the periphery of Jeonghan’s vision.

“I will take some air,” Jeonghan says, abruptly, turning and striding from the hall too quickly for Joshua to call him back. Not that Joshua would – he has always understood Jeonghan on an intuitive level; had circumstances been different, the rumors might well have been true.

He does not intentionally seek out the training yard, but he finds himself there all the same. When the knights realize he is there, they bow and make room for him at the edge of the sparring ring. Jeonghan goes to stand beside Jihoon, acknowledging him with a nod that Jihoon returns, and lets his eyes be drawn to the figures circling each other with swords drawn and dirt on their faces.

Minghao rarely uses a longsword, but he wields one now, no doubt to demonstrate proper technique to some of the newer knights as he simultaneously delivers a practical lesson to the two youths who are eagerly facing him. Jeonghan has not seen these two before, but that is no surprise; he is generally discouraged from making appearances at the training grounds and, after the last time his father intervened in his presence there, he tends to abide by his parents’ wishes. As long as he does not engage himself, though, there can be no harm in it. As long as he does not exert himself, his parents need never know he was even here.

The shorter of the two boys moves well, but his grip is wrong. Minghao knocks his sword from his hand easily, then waits while he picks it up, flexing his fingers exaggeratedly to show the kid how it’s done. The boy learns fast, only stumbling a little the second time Minghao tries the same attack, and even attempting to gain the upper hand in a moment of opportunity when Minghao is distracted by a swing from his other pupil. It fails, of course, Minghao sending him to the ground in two strikes, but Minghao’s smile is approving as the boy clambers back to his feet for more.

The second boy has a look about him that does not put Jeonghan in mind of a soldier so much as a courtier, his features a bit round, a clear sign of his youth, and with a certain lift to his chin that suggests he is used to getting his own way. Stubbornness may get him killed in battle, or it may save his life, depending on his instincts and the training Jihoon is able to impart to him before that moment comes. He also moves well, though less fluidly or aggressively than his training partner, his strikes more deliberate and less intuitive, by the look of them. He nearly lands a blow on Minghao’s shoulder, his blade passing so close it catches the sleeve of Minghao’s shirt as he spins out of the way. Minghao looks delighted.

“Wrap it up, Hao,” Jihoon calls out, his arms crossed over his chest as he surveys the match unamusedly. “Seungkwan is getting cocky; show him what a real soldier can do.”

It’s over in seconds at that point, both of the trainees’ weapons on the ground at Minghao’s feet before the novices can even blink. For good measure, Minghao knocks the legs out of the taller one, sending him to his knees in the dirt with a tap to the back of his thighs.

Minghao tosses his weapon from his right to his off hand without looking as he offers the downed boy a hand up. The boy takes it, his expression familiar to Jeonghan – he is already calculating his loss into his technique for next time. The other novice picks up both fallen swords and stares at Minghao with stars in his eyes, beaming when Minghao claps a hand to his shoulder and says something to him in a low tone.

“Not bad,” Jeonghan says, pitching his voice for only Jihoon to hear. He wouldn’t mind complimenting the kids directly, but Jihoon has his own manner of doing things and Jeonghan doesn’t want to get in the way. He certainly has no right to tell Jihoon how to do his job, given Jeonghan’s own woeful lack of training.

Jihoon nods. “They’re coming along well,” he agrees, equally quietly. “Those two and the other. They respond well to Minghao.”

Jeonghan hums an acknowledgement. They have had this conversation before, and Jeonghan will not budge now just as he has never budged before. Jihoon cannot have any more of Minghao’s time than he already does. Jeonghan needs him.

Seeing Minghao move to approach them, Jeonghan lifts a hand in a wave. Minghao quickens his pace as he makes his way over.

“Sire,” Minghao says, dipping his head when he reaches them. “Is there something you have need of?”

“I just wanted to watch my knights in action,” Jeonghan says, grinning at him. He raises his voice a little, so that he can be heard clearly by all those listening – which is certain to be every single man and woman in the courtyard. “You bring great pride and honor to the kingdom, and it does me good to see for myself how fiercely skilled our soldiers are.”

The knights all pull themselves up a bit at this, and Jeonghan feels bitterly pleased. At least he can do _this_ for his kingdom’s military, if he is permitted to do nothing else.

He is relegated to an orator while those who serve him lay down their lives for their country. Jeonghan eyes the sword in Minghao’s hand. Perhaps his mother is right – it is high time he took responsibility.

“Minghao, spar with me,” he demands, ignoring the way Jihoon stiffens at his side. Minghao watches him steadily but stands firm, making no move to do as he is bid. Jeonghan’s expression twitches. “My sword,” he calls, holding his hand out but continuing to stare back at Minghao. They both know he will win this argument. Minghao can never oppose him for long – not in anything but the only matter in which Jeonghan will never press him.

Someone presses a hilt into his hand, and Jeonghan closes his fingers around it. It has been a long time since he held a blade. A rush of nerves hit him, but he doesn’t let it show on his face; princes, after all, have no fear.

Minghao reads him anyway. He always does. His eyes flicker towards Jihoon and, after a moment in which some kind of understanding passes between them, Minghao turns to lead the way to the far side of the yard just as Jihoon calls out for everyone to pair up for defensive drills near him. Jihoon organizes the knights to face away from where Minghao leads Jeonghan, affording the prince as much privacy as he can.

Jeonghan wishes he did not have to be grateful for the consideration. But then, it is not good for morale to watch your future king fall on his ass.

Minghao’s posture is relaxed, his sword held loosely at his side. He will not strike first, Jeonghan knows from experience.

“Sire,” Minghao says softly. “It is not worth the risk.”

“How can my soldiers respect me if I cannot lead them in battle?” Jeonghan fires back, snappish and harsh, though Minghao does not deserve it. He swallows hard, forcing down the tangle of emotions in his chest. “I must be credible if I am to be king, Minghao,” he says, more calmly. “I must.”

“You are, Sire,” Minghao says. “In all eyes but your own.”

It stings more than it should, more than Minghao probably meant it to – he probably did not mean for it to hurt at all – and Jeonghan shakes off the feeling that comes over him at the look in Minghao’s eyes. If only he would look at him that way and say something else, something Jeonghan knows he never will.

Jeonghan shakes his head. “Begin,” he says crisply, falling into a defensive stance.

Minghao mimics him, his eyes sharp and his shoulders loose, and he falls silent as he watches for Jeonghan to make the first move.

Jeonghan’s first strikes are sloppy, his next few not much better, and by the twelfth time his sword clashes with Minghao’s, the sound ringing loud in the afternoon air, his arm and shoulder are aching from the unfamiliar movement and impacts. Minghao parries his blows calmly, whispering advice and praise under his breath so that only Jeonghan can hear him. He handles Jeonghan so gently in these encounters. It twists something dark and angry inside of him.

Soon, Jeonghan’s blows are coming faster, muscle memory kicking in, and Minghao is forced to actually take defensive measures instead of gently batting away his blade like an indulgent parent. Jeonghan revels in a vicious thrill of satisfaction when Minghao’s brow furrows in concentration, pushing forward into the feeling.

He strikes out rapidly, trying to catch Minghao off guard, but every time he is blocked. Minghao never attempts a hit in return, never once strays from his steady and cautious rebuttals of Jeonghan’s own swings. It is maddening. It is infuriating. It makes Jeonghan _livid_, and in his agitation he overstretches, unbalancing himself and nearly falling to his knees on the hard-packed earth, if not for Minghao’s hand darting out to grab him by the elbow and bear his weight.

Jeonghan jerks away, sneering at him. Minghao stares blankly back at him.

It is only as Jeonghan pauses for a moment, trying to get his legs under him again, that he realizes he is panting. No, it is more than panting; he is wheezing.

Minghao clearly realizes it too, his expression dropping into one of concern as Jeonghan heaves for breath in front of him.

“Jeonghan,” Minghao murmurs, concern quickly morphing into alarm as Jeonghan’s breathing does not slow or stabilize. He drops his sword and takes Jeonghan by the shoulders, exaggerating his breathing to try to help Jeonghan normalize his own.

It does not work.

“Hansol, come clean these up,” Minghao calls, his voice perfectly steady despite the anxiety Jeonghan can see clearly in his eyes. “The Prince is needed elsewhere,” he adds, guiding Jeonghan away from the yard, in the opposite direction from where the knights are still training under Jihoon’s watchful eye.

“Do you need any assistance, Sir?” one of the young knights calls, sounding as though he is coming closer to them.

Jeonghan closes his eyes, hoping none of them see him in this state. He was stupid – again, always – and now he is paying the price. He cannot take another attack on his pride today, but it seems the strike has been dealt anyway.

Minghao does not allow the blow to land.

“Attend to Jihoon, Chan,” Minghao says. “This does not concern you.” His hand is warm and firm on Jeonghan’s back as he ushers him away from the training grounds, blocking Jeonghan physically with his body to protect him from prying eyes, moving as quickly as they can when Jeonghan feels as though a horse is sitting on his chest and he can barely draw a breath in.

It hurts. He grabs at his chest, getting a fistful of fabric and no relief as he presses down over his lungs. Minghao grabs his hands, pulling them away from Jeonghan’s chest and rubbing his thumbs firmly across his palms. Jeonghan didn’t notice them moving into a shadowed corridor, but his back is against solid stone and Minghao is at his front, distressed and faintly golden under the sunlight filtering into the confined space.

He tries to speak, but no words come out. Instead, he looses a hacking cough, and once he starts he cannot stop.

It feels like dying every time. The pain is unpleasant, but what Jeonghan hates the most is the sense of panic that comes over him when he cannot breathe, when the pressure forces all the air from his lungs and leaves him gasping, wheezing, heaving with no relief.

He slides to the ground, the wall and Minghao guiding him down, and hunches over, hanging his head low as he struggles for breath.

Minghao never leaves him. His hands are in Jeonghan’s, holding tight, and his body blocks the view of Jeonghan’s momentary weakness from anyone who might glance down the corridor. He is firm and steady and his presence is an anchor as everything else floats away, Jeonghan’s world narrowed down to pain and shallow breaths and Minghao.

It takes some time for the attack to pass, Jeonghan’s body cold with sweat and shaking by the end of it. He is relieved. He knows that could have been far worse.

A hand in his hair draws his focus up, lifting his head tiredly to look Minghao in the eye as he strokes Jeonghan’s hair in gentle tugs. Jeonghan forces a smile, his lips only barely quirking up.

“I think I would like to lie down now,” he whispers, his voice coming out rough and raked-over. He swallows. He wants water, but more than that he wants privacy.

Minghao helps him stand and, once he is on his feet and certain he won’t fall down again, Jeonghan brushes him off.

“I can see myself back to my room,” he says, slightly smoother than a moment ago but still almost unrecognizable compared to his usual voice. Minghao clearly wants to argue with him, but Jeonghan holds up a hand, refusing him. “Go back to the training yard; I am sure Jihoon needs you more than I do now.”

“Sire,” Minghao says, simply. No pleading, no remonstration, just an address. His eyes say what his mouth doesn’t – or they would, if Jeonghan allowed himself to look at them. They always do.

“I will send for you if I have need of you,” Jeonghan tells him, ending the conversation there. They both know he will not send for Minghao, just as they both know there is nothing Minghao can do about it. Jeonghan turns towards the end of the corridor, the way they came in, and begins walking away with slow steps, careful not to trigger another attack by needlessly pushing himself now.

He does not need to look behind him to know that Minghao is watching him. He does not need to see it to know what sort of expression is on Minghao’s face. He knows. He knows that Minghao wants to come after him, to insist on taking care of him, to stay by his side as he wishes. He knows, equally, that Minghao will never voice these desires, will never step a foot out of the lines they both must live inside.

No matter how much Jeonghan might – they both might – want him to.

~~~

Jeonghan nearly does not go to the stables. He has spent the rest of the afternoon and the evening cloistered away in his room, resting and letting the doctor Minghao sent poke at him and then resting some more, and he is in a much fouler mood than he was when he began his forced convalescence.

He nearly does not go. He considers it, staring sullenly out his window as the sun sinks lower and lower, as it becomes obscured by gathering clouds.

He nearly stays.

But he doesn’t.

He never can stay away from Minghao.

When he arrives in the stables, Minghao is alone. He has saddled both their horses already, Jeonghan’s black mare prancing excitedly while Minghao’s dappled gray stands idle, accepting her master’s affection. Minghao’s hand stills in the horse’s mane when he spots him, and Jeonghan has a wild moment of jealousy, wishing that hand was in his hair instead.

Then Minghao smiles at him, and all negative feelings are forgotten.

“I thought you might not come,” Minghao says, resuming his petting of Stormcloud lazily.

Jeonghan tsks at him. “That shows how little you know me, Minghao,” he chides him, striding over confidently. “I always keep my word.”

“And so do I,” Minghao says. “I promised you a sunset.”

“Yes, well, you may have some trouble delivering on that promise now.” Jeonghan gestures in the direction of the stable doors. “The sun is nowhere to be found, I’m afraid, and it is not long until it sets.”

Minghao smiles enigmatically, offering Beauty Mark’s reins. “Have a little faith, Sire,” he says, even letting his accent slip through just that much more to cajole Jeonghan into going along with him.

As though Jeonghan needs the encouragement.

He sighs, taking the reins from Minghao as though it is a great effort. “Faith, he says,” he grumbles artificially, “faith in what, precisely?”

“In me,” Minghao returns. He swings himself into the saddle, not offering to assist Jeonghan the way anyone else would, since the horse is calm and cooperative. He leaves room for Jeonghan’s pride and independence where he can.

Jeonghan appreciates that Minghao does not coddle him overmuch, as, once he takes a minute to calm the spike in his breathing from mounting his horse, he is every bit as able a rider as Minghao or anyone else. It is nice, in these moments, that Minghao allows him to act like it, as though he believes it too.

Minghao leads the way out of the stables, the courtyard suspiciously empty as they pass through it, and then out of the palace grounds. He is leading them to the hill, Jeonghan realizes quickly, a grin teasing at the corners of his mouth. He must have something spectacular planned if he feels the hill is called for.

“Even you, I think,” Jeonghan calls ahead to him, enjoying the way Minghao’s head cants back towards him, clearly listening though his gaze remains fixed forward, “cannot move heaven and earth, Minghao. The sky is dark; there is no sun to set tonight.”

“Faith, Jeonghan!” Minghao calls back, sounding delightfully pleased with himself.

Jeonghan laughs. _This_ is what being a prince should be: long rides with the one he loves, surveying the beauty of his kingdom in the fading, flickering light of an approaching storm and reveling in the feeling of being lighter than air, enthralled by his absolute fortune to exist in this moment. They have far too few moments like this one. Jeonghan will savor it as deeply as he can.

Minghao does, indeed, lead them to the hill, dismounting while Stormcloud continues to canter, letting her carry on down to the base of the knoll where the river runs. He turns, then, and waits for Jeonghan, ready to catch Beauty Mark’s reins and hold her steady while Jeonghan dismounts, cautious despite his confidence in Jeonghan’s ability to do it himself.

Jeonghan is distracted, as he pulls his horse to a stop, by Minghao’s profile as he reaches out to rub a hand up and down the animal’s nose, leaning close to whisper something to her, a small, secret smile tugging at his lips. He is beautiful. He is more beautiful than Jeonghan knows how to express. The slight wind toys with his hair in fits and starts, brushing it back from his face like a lover – like Jeonghan longs to do. His dark eyes are turned on Jeonghan now, patient and warm, his face tilted up as though in supplication.

Gods. If he asked, Jeonghan would give it. Anything, everything.

Minghao does not ask; he offers. An elegant, long-fingered hand extended, palm up, to help Jeonghan down, though they both know he does not need it. Better safe than sorry, Minghao so often says even as he takes ridiculous risks with his own life and safety. The right of an attack dog, a whisper in the dark, a prince’s right hand, he says, to risk himself for the safety and benefit of his prince. Jeonghan argues with him, but it is no use. Objectively, Minghao is right: Jeonghan is the more valuable of the two of them, if only in the eyes of the law and the land and the security of the kingdom.

Jeonghan would still gladly tear himself to pieces to protect him, not that he will ever be allowed to do it, least of all by Minghao himself.

“Sire?” Minghao asks, still looking up at Jeonghan, and Jeonghan realizes he has been staring.

Well, let Minghao catch him out, then. It is his fault, anyway, for being so gorgeous in the rough light that comes and goes by the moment, clouds overhead mercurial and roiling. Jeonghan drops his hand into Minghao’s, closing his fingers as tightly as he can around that which he so rarely is permitted to touch. Minghao does not help him down so much as steadies him, taking some of Jeonghan’s weight to make the move to the ground less jarring. It is unnecessary, but Jeonghan will never turn down a chance to hold Minghao’s hand, even if only for a moment.

Minghao sends Beauty Mark off to join her fellow by the water and, with another mysterious and self-satisfied smile, tugs Jeonghan along to the very top of their hill. The lilac bush smells heavenly, raising memories in Jeonghan of long summer days when the most pressing matters he had to attend to were his geography lessons, days when he was freer but very much alone. It evokes days also of laying on their backs, he and Minghao, later summers beneath its spreading branches, Jeonghan pretending he could not hear when he was called for, hiding away and, for the first time in years, feeling safe because no one ever dared to touch him when his Whisper was near.

Now, Minghao releases his hand but does not go far – or anywhere at all. He remains at Jeonghan’s side and looks upward, peering out from under the lilac bush, brushing aside a drooping branch laden with rich blossoms. A handful of petals break away when he disturbs the plant, landing in his hair like a violet crown.

“Look,” he says, urging Jeonghan to step forward, a hand coming to his back as he moves closer to the edge where the hill breaks away and drops off cleanly.

Jeonghan looks. He inches closer to Minghao, basking in the warmth of him, and looks up, waiting to see what Minghao is so excited to show him.

For a moment, nothing happens. The sky is overcast and dull, clouds obscuring anything of interest, and then, all in a second, it breaks.

The heavens crack open, black and ash clouds splintering and dissecting themselves into fragmented slivers and shards, golden sunlight pouring through the gaps left in their wake. Jeonghan’s breath catches, but not in an alarming way, thank the gods, his eyes widening as the sky is suddenly alive with color and shape and texture, red and orange and pink and silver and purple and navy and iridescent gold swelling up in the space between storm clouds in stunning contrast. It is like a treasure chest split open, otherworldly jewelry and gold spilling across the furrows of a rough sea, some sinking and others floating impossibly to sparkle atop the crests of the waves.

“I told you I would bring you a sunset,” Minghao says, his voice soft in Jeonghan’s ear.

Jeonghan watches him from the corner of his eye, how Minghao is staring at him. There is something raw in Minghao’s eyes, something split open like the sky above them, something yearning and awed. Jeonghan cannot put a name to it exactly, but he knows it is an echo of what he can feel straining against the confines of his own chest.

He knows, also, that the second he turns to meet Minghao’s eyes, the moment will pass and Minghao will look away, hiding that expression from Jeonghan as he hides everything else that makes him seem vulnerable and hungry and in love. _Loving_, Minghao is, but _in love_, he will never admit to being.

“It is beautiful,” Jeonghan says, keeping his gaze forward, angled up, giving Minghao a moment to look. _You are more beautiful_, he does not say.

“You should always be surrounded by beauty,” Minghao says, still softly, gently. His hand lifts, his fingers spread and delicate as he reaches –

And then he pulls away, stepping just enough to the side that Jeonghan can feel the wind sneak between them, chilling him nearly as much as his disappointment at the lost moment does. He stifles a sigh. Minghao will never make the first move and Jeonghan cannot do so. It is their lot in life, their designated suffering, to be apart. As he shifts in the evening breeze, feeling keenly the distance between them, he wishes, not for the first time nor for the last, that they would not have to be quite so far apart. Jeonghan will marry someone else someday, he has accepted that, but, in the meantime, why can they not dream?

Because Jeonghan would dream too deeply and break both their hearts doing it. He knows he would. And Minghao would let him, if Jeonghan moved first. When Jeonghan calls, Minghao comes to him. For seven years now, it has been like this, and Jeonghan knows Minghao will not change. Minghao’s loyalty is his best quality and it is the thing Jeonghan struggles most viciously not to take advantage of.

It might be different if Minghao were not who he is. But then, they would never have met.

Jeonghan does look at Minghao now, having to slant his head slightly to meet his eye, close as they are standing and with Minghao just that much taller than he is. Predictably, Minghao’s expression smooths over when their eyes connect, nothing but fondness showing now. Jeonghan’s gaze drifts to his neck, where he keeps his hair long and loose, hiding the open secret of the royal family.

Minghao lifts a hand, touching the back of his neck, drawing Jeonghan’s focus again to his face. His expression is unreadable, his stare shifting away from Jeonghan as he lets his hand fall, slowly, brushing aside his hair in the same movement to reveal the brand.

Jeonghan looks away. He does not want to see it.

“Come,” he says, spinning on his heel, turning his back on the mostly-spent sunset. “We should get back before Mingyu misses me and sends out a search party.”

Minghao falls into step with him easily until they reach the base of the hill, then he breaks away to fetch the horses. Jeonghan waits for him impatiently, an itch starting up beneath his skin.

It isn’t as though he forgets about Minghao’s past. How could he? It is Minghao’s past that allows Jeonghan to stand in his own place as heir to the throne, a future king the people need not fear to be weak and ineffective. Who, after all, would dare challenge the one who holds the leash of the Southlands’ Sorrow?

Even if Jeonghan’s own body is feeble, his right hand is strong. Merciless. A heart of iron born with a knife between his teeth. No one has made an attempt on Jeonghan’s life in seven years – they have talked enough about it, certainly, but no one has actually tried their luck since Minghao came to be known as _his_. His guard dog. His sentinel and protector. His Whisper in the Dark.

He is the most feared murderer and thief Jeonghan’s kingdom has known in a century.

And he is the kindest, warmest, dearest person Jeonghan has ever known.

His Whisper.

If only he could call him _his_ in the way he wishes most.

Minghao returns with the horses, holding Jeonghan’s steady for him to mount this time, worked up as she is by the fresh air. Jeonghan makes no comment, though he normally would. He is not much in the mood for teasing.

Minghao seems to sense this and to be determined to override Jeonghan’s melancholy. No sooner have they begun to travel back to the palace than he begins a conversation in a light-hearted tone.

“So how did the preparations for the solstice ball go today?” he asks – a neutral topic in his opinion, no doubt.

Jeonghan laughs humorlessly, meanly, sadness giving way to anger like water parting for a stone – easy, natural. He sees Minghao glance at him sidelong but he does not look over.

“Oh, it was _wonderful_,” he says, sarcasm thick in his voice. “Mother had quite a lot to say about – well, about _me_, of course. She does not care if I marry a prince instead of a princess, she was happy to inform me, but she will be expecting a selection soon.”

Minghao nods slowly, but does not say anything. Jeonghan scoffs.

“Are you not surprised, Minghao?” he demands. “I suppose you wouldn’t be. Everyone seems to have a plan for where my life is headed except for me, after all.”

“You knew this was coming, Sire,” Minghao says evenly, not rising to Jeonghan’s bait. “You are twenty-five.”

“Old enough to make up my own godsdamn mind,” Jeonghan spits. The fury and fear he felt this afternoon comes back to him in a wave, Mother’s threat looming large in his mind. What he would not give to be able to buck her – both of them – and wed Minghao in secret, announce and ratify it before either of them could stop him. They would be forced to accept it if he did; divorce is not something done within the royal family, and he knows they are well aware, as Mother so kindly informed him today, that he will never give them a natural heir anyway. He has cousins they could pull to the throne, but if there is anyone his parents see less value in than Jeonghan, it is his mother’s brother and his progeny.

If it were not for Minghao’s brand, for his history, Jeonghan would have done it already. If he asked, Minghao would say yes, he is almost positive.

If he asked.

But he can’t.

“It is not …” Minghao hesitates.

Jeonghan watches him, the anger leaving him as quickly as it came when he sees the depth of turmoil and emotion on his face, hollowing Jeonghan out until only exhaustion is left behind. It is not Minghao’s fault that things are what they are. It is Minghao’s history, but not Minghao’s fault. Minghao saved Jeonghan’s rule before it has even begun; Jeonghan owes him gratitude, not derision.

“It is not what either of us want … for you,” Minghao says, lowly. Jeonghan feels the weight of his words, and of those hidden in the cracks of his sentences. “But we both have always known that this is the path you must take. And, for whatever it is worth, I will not leave you. Even if you have no need of me, if you make a strong alliance and I become superfluous, I will not leave unless you send me away. You have me, Sire, always.”

You have me, too, Jeonghan wants to say.

He cannot. That is not allowed.

Even Jeonghan has limits to his selfishness.

“That is worth a lot,” he says instead. “I do not – I could not do this without you.”

It is more true than he thinks he can ever admit, even to himself.

Minghao nods. “We will make the best of it, then, you and I. You will survive the ball – I will make sure of it.”

“Of course,” Jeonghan says, a bit slyly, aiming for levity. “That is what I pay you for, after all.” The attempt falls flat to his own ears, but Minghao plays along, smiling feebly back at him.

It is enough. It has to be. And, when Jeonghan is reminded yet again that it is not enough, not nearly enough, at least he will have Minghao, loyal and brave and kind and good and every other thing Jeonghan could possibly wish him to be.

Except, of course, for _his_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be complete, art needs to be seen, experienced, witnessed. So – thank you for reading my fic. I’d love it if you left a comment so I know you engaged with it, because that truly is the goal of every written work – to be engaged with – and it’s always wonderfully gratifying and vitalizing to get confirmation of that from the reader.


	2. Chapter 2

The day of the ball dawns bright and clear, but by nightfall the sky has clouded over. Jeonghan watches the fast-moving darkness from the window of his bedroom, mild fascination keeping his focus there as he cooperates with Mingyu’s attempts to make him presentable for the evening.

His coat and cloak are new, fine fabric that shimmers like white gold when he moves in the light. His pants offset the glimmering majesty of the outfit, a more subdued tan, but the accessories Mother has chosen for him more than make up for it, numerous bracelets, rings, and necklaces weighing heavy against his skin. He looks fantastic and he knows it, but he would much rather admire someone else tonight.

“Where is Minghao?” he asks, again, holding his wrist out obligingly so that Mingyu can secure a third chain around it. “We have to leave for the ballroom any moment now and he is meant to escort me.”

From his post by the door, Joshua clears his throat. “It was suggested that perhaps, to encourage friendly conversation over the course of the evening, it would be best for you to arrive unaccompanied.”

“My mother’s suggestion?” Jeonghan asks bitterly. Of course she would be preoccupied with his perceived _availability_. That is what the evening is about in her mind.

“Your father, actually, Sire,” Joshua says mildly. “He instructed me personally that you should arrive alone and in style. You are also instructed to give special attention to the prince of Majja; he will be to your right as you enter the ballroom.”

“Hang his prince and his style,” Jeonghan snaps, pulling away from Mingyu sharply. Mingyu chases him with the fine gold pendant in his hands, pouting when Jeonghan refuses to let him put it on. “I have enough baubles, thank you, Mingyu,” Jeonghan tells him, a bit impatiently. He turns to Joshua, then. “I will arrive with Minghao, as I arrive at all royal functions, and he will be at my side for the duration of the evening. If my father does not like it, he can go hang too.”

“Shall I deliver that message to him verbatim, or do you mind if I paraphrase?” Joshua asks drily.

Jeonghan eyes him. Joshua stares boldly back, unintimidated as ever by Jeonghan, even when he should be. Joshua also looks very nice tonight; smart and clean, rich red velvet from head to toe – Mother’s favorite color. And she accuses _him_ of showing preference.

“Do as you like,” Jeonghan tells him, looking back out the window. “You know his moods better than I do; say whatever will make him angriest with me, if you would.”

“Infuriate the prince; I will make it a priority, Sire,” Joshua says, very obviously having no intention of doing so. He raps his knuckles against the door, then, the sound drawing Jeonghan’s attention. “I thought you might refuse directives,” he says, stepping to the side of the door, “so I took the liberty of having Minghao wait outside.”

As Joshua speaks, the door opens, revealing Minghao dressed in his finest.

And by the _gods_ does he look fine.

It is not unusual for Minghao to dress in black, but the subtle pattern to the fabric of his shirt and vest is new. Jeonghan cannot tell what, exactly, the design is, crafted as it is from a marginally glossy black thread woven into the matte base of the weave, but it glints, mesmerizing, as Minghao steps into the flickering candlelight of Jeonghan’s bedroom. He is not wearing a cloak – he never does, claiming he needs to be mobile to protect his prince should the need arise – but everything about him is fluid even without it. His clothes are tailored to him exactly, his silhouette sharp and elegant. The sword and dagger at his sides stand in stark relief against his dark clothes, no doubt a deliberate choice, a reminder to all who see him who and what he is. He wears no jewelry but one piece, a single chain of silver that hangs down below the line of his shirt.

Jeonghan knows without looking what rests at the end of that chain.

“Sire,” Minghao says, deferential and soft and just a bit unsure, forcing Jeonghan to look away from his attire and meet his eyes and – oh.

“What have you done to your hair?” Jeonghan asks. He is startled to find that his voice comes out in a whisper, shock and wonderment coloring it pale and thin.

Minghao lifts a hand, touching a few strands that hang by his face. “Do you like it? It was Junhui’s idea, for the masque, he thought –”

“He was right,” Jeonghan breathes out.

Minghao’s hair is silver – not the faded gray Jeonghan sees creeping into the tresses of his parents, but true silver, slipping like silk around his cheekbones and just grazing his shoulders. It is stunning. He looks like a fairytale come to life, an elven prince come to sweep Jeonghan away to a world less rigid and unforgiving than this one.

He looks enchanted, and that is exactly how Jeonghan feels.

“I have my mask,” Minghao says, still a bit uncertainly. He holds up a slip of black lace and satin. It looks like Wonwoo’s work. It also looks as though it will perfectly match the mask sitting on Jeonghan’s desk right now, its twin in black instead of white, edged with silver where Jeonghan’s glitters with gold. Minghao’s eyes rover over Jeonghan, his ears tipped with red. “You look …” he pauses, glancing at Mingyu and Joshua, who are both pretending to pay them no attention – Joshua does a better job of it, of the two. “You look regal, Sire,” Minghao says, his voice appreciative but respectful. Warm but distant.

Jeonghan would much rather hear what Minghao was about to say and didn’t, hopes it was something infinitely more salacious and wonderstruck than reminding Jeonghan unnecessarily of his own title and status. Minghao is, as ever, appropriate, though.

Even if his eyes do drag across Jeonghan’s face and body in a way that makes him feel hot and happy and _known_.

“Regal?” Jeonghan teases. “Is that all? I was hoping to make more of a splash than that, Minghao. I always look _regal_.”

“That is not all, Sire,” Minghao says softly. “You are always more than that. Regal is simply the only word I may presume the privilege to call you.”

Jeonghan has no idea what expression he is making right now. That heat is spreading, spilling up his neck to his face, and he feels almost insensible with delight. The intensity in Minghao’s eyes is making him lightheaded and stupid.

Mingyu, of course, sees fit to shatter the moment.

“Sire, the party starts soon and you must let me put your mask on,” he says, managing to make the reminder sound petulant even though Jeonghan is the one with a reason to complain.

“Oh, must I? Must I let you, Mingyu?” Jeonghan mocks, but he turns slightly, obligingly, all the same, allowing Mingyu to step behind him so that he can fasten the ribbon there.

Mingyu grumbles but does so, securing the mask with a double knot that jerks Jeonghan’s head back as he pulls it taut. It doesn’t hurt, thankfully, the tie loose enough not to dig into Jeonghan’s skin – he has learned since last year, then – but it certainly will not come loose without Jeonghan’s intention. Mingyu actually is quite good at his job these days, despite the aura he gives off to the contrary.

“Thank you, Mingyu, you are dismissed,” Jeonghan tells him, turning to check himself in the mirror. He looks good. Minghao looks better, staring at him as a reflection over Jeonghan’s shoulder, something deep and wanting and fond – _loving_, Jeonghan thinks, though he does not dare to own that thought fully – bare across his face. He looks up, and his eyes meet Jeonghan’s. The blush on Minghao’s ears darkens. Jeonghan’s reflection grins manically back at him. “Go,” he says, addressing Mingyu and Joshua both with a wave of his hand. “Enjoy the party. I am no longer your concern. This part, I have more than enough practice in.”

He can play the charming prince in his sleep – and he has, on one memorable occasion. He needs no supervision to attend a royal ball.

“I will wait outside to see you to the ballroom, Sire,” Joshua says, gesturing Mingyu out of the room first. “You have a few minutes, but then we really do need to be on our way.”

“Do not bother to wait on me, Joshua,” Jeonghan says, still watching Minghao through the mirror. Minghao is watching him back, and the way he is staring is making Jeonghan fidgety in the best way. “I will be along in due time.”

Joshua clears his throat. In the mirror, Minghao glances away from Jeonghan to look at him. Something must pass between the two, because when Minghao turns back to Jeonghan, he does not quite meet his eyes again. Jeonghan frowns.

“I will wait outside,” Joshua says neutrally. He sees himself out then, following after Mingyu, and closes the door behind him – mostly. Jeonghan can see, even from here, that he did not latch it, leaving it open just the barest sliver.

As though Jeonghan is stupid enough to miss the Summer Solstice Ball because he and Minghao were distracted by each other’s attentions.

… Actually, if Minghao were to offer his attentions, right here, right now, Jeonghan would gladly skip this ball and every ball after. Fuck parties where he is expected to act reserved and princely and vacant – he would much rather have Minghao stare at him, and nothing else, than go out there tonight or any other night.

So, alright, perhaps Joshua is right to be overbearing just this once.

If the look in Minghao’s eyes tonight is to be a guide for the evening, though, Joshua’s commitment to seeing Jeonghan to the ball may well be tested. Minghao’s eyes are telling Jeonghan to stay, and it will take an act of the gods for Joshua or anyone else to drag him away should Minghao ever vocalize that desire.

Now that they are alone, Jeonghan does not know what to say or do. Minghao is still not looking directly at him, his head angled down and his gaze skewed to the side, only briefly glancing up at him and then away again, hiding what Jeonghan knows he saw there only moments ago. When Jeonghan moves his gaze downward, he realizes that Minghao’s shoulders are hunched uncharacteristically, his posture anxious.

Well, Jeonghan cannot have that.

“You look good,” Jeonghan says, pleased when Minghao once again meets his eyes in the looking glass. He rakes his eyes deliberately up and down Minghao’s body, raising his eyebrows as well for the full licentious effect. “You should dress like this all the time,” he says, musing. “Or, well, perhaps not. It would distract the maids and footmen.”

“Just the maids and footmen, Sire?” Minghao asks, a hint of smile coming to his lips now. God he has nice lips.

Jeonghan turns quickly, whipping around to face Minghao head on, bracing his hands behind his back to force his posture straight. The entire room is between them, but Jeonghan could swear he feels the heat of Minghao’s body even from where he is standing. He feels reckless. He is flirting with Minghao openly and Minghao is flirting back. They are usually so careful to not do this to themselves, but the air feels charged tonight. Their history with solstice balls certainly does not help matters.

Jeonghan brings a hand to his chin, his thumb scarcely brushing the skin before he drops it, the phantom of Minghao’s fingers touching him there a year ago rising up in his memory. With it comes the memory of what Jeonghan wished Minghao had done next, and what he regrets not doing himself.

Minghao’s eyes track the movement, and Jeonghan knows their thoughts echo each other. When Minghao once again meets his eyes, there is heat there.

Jeonghan licks his lips, reveling, careless and wild, when Minghao tracks that, too, when Minghao takes a half step forward, making warmth and hope bloom and twine around one another in his chest.

“Minghao,” Jeonghan murmurs, watching him with hungry eyes, feeling desperate like he rarely lets himself. “Minghao, I –”

A loud clang from the hallway silences him.

Joshua.

Doing his duty, then, as always.

Reality crashes around Jeonghan like shards of glass, slicing him open and leaving him to bleed across the floor. Jeonghan swallows, the anticipation in his gut twisting into leaden disappointment. Minghao steps back. Jeonghan looks away.

“Right,” he says, falsely cheerful in a much more transparent way than he usually manages. Usually, he is good at faking it. Right now, though, he feels unsteady. He clears his throat, not looking in Minghao’s direction even as he steps towards him, heading for the door. “We should go,” he says briskly. “It wouldn’t do to keep everyone waiting.”

Minghao steps aside, making room – more than enough of it – for Jeonghan to walk past him and out into the hall. Jeonghan stops, though, when he reaches him, his gaze catching on the flash of twinkling black and silver in Minghao’s hand.

“Your mask,” he says softly.

Minghao looks down, his hand jerking as he brings the mask in front of him.

“Here,” Jeonghan says, seized once again by the ghost of something he should not allow himself to embrace, tonight more than ever. He ignores the rational part of himself that reminds him of this and takes the mask from Minghao’s unresisting fingers.

He steps behind Minghao slowly, telegraphing his movements before he makes them so that Minghao can move away if he wishes. He does not. Jeonghan runs the ribbon fastening through his fingers, feeling the smoothness of it, and realizes only then that his hands are trembling, just barely, not enough to make him fumble as he positions the mask over Minghao’s face, situating it over his eyes delicately. Minghao’s long fingers come up to hold it in place so that Jeonghan can fasten the tie, his breathing deep and even, intoxicating as the warmth of his skin becomes real beneath Jeonghan’s hands.

He takes his time, tying three knots and pulling them tight gently so as not to tug at Minghao’s hair or the skin around his eyes. It also gives him a moment to breath in the scent he has missed, waking up alone recently. He has not been this close to Minghao in four days. Sharing a bed is a rare occurrence, and it is probably best for Jeonghan’s sanity that it is so, because every time he has it he wants more, again, everything, all of Minghao for every moment of every day.

Minghao could drive him mad if he wanted, and Jeonghan would be powerless to stop him.

And oh, how glad Jeonghan would be if he did.

“I think we should go, Sire, if you are finished,” Minghao says, barely a whisper in the quiet of the room. Jeonghan’s hands fell still some time ago, he does not know exactly when, and nothing else moves but the breath between them.

Jeonghan releases the ribbon, tracing lightly over Minghao’s hair before he pulls away. It is as soft as it looks, despite whatever Junhui has done to it to achieve this unnatural color. When he steps back, Minghao sighs, the barest push of air, and Jeonghan feels an answering pull in his own lungs.

Jeonghan honestly does not know how he makes it out of the room without kissing Minghao. If asked, he would lay the credit solely at Minghao’s feet, or maybe Joshua’s, because everything in him in this moment is screaming at him to lean in, to turn Minghao’s head back towards him, to seal their lips together over the slope of Minghao’s shoulder and bury his fingers in Minghao’s hair, to hold him there until the sky falls and crushes them both beneath it.

He does not do that. Fortunately, probably. Disappointingly.

So it must be Minghao who moves first, who gets them out of there and leads Jeonghan to the ballroom before stepping back, falling into place behind him and to the side. Jeonghan does not know for certain. What he does know is that, no matter how charming Prince Soonyoung is, he will never be Xu Minghao, Jeonghan’s Whisper in the Dark, his _heart_, and that is quite enough to condemn him. Jeonghan cannot help it.

Love is a demanding, damning, inescapable thing.

~~~

Prince Soonyoung is, in fact, utterly delightful. He wins Jeonghan’s favor fast when his second speech – his first being to greet Jeonghan, bowing deeply and kissing his hand in an obnoxious but forgivable show of gallantry – is to address Minghao and compliment him on the sword at his side, a weapon Jeonghan knows Minghao takes great pride in.

“Thank you, Sire,” Minghao says, angling his head respectfully. “It was a gift from a friend.”

“I would very much like to know who made it,” Prince Soonyoung says, eyeing the blade. “I have rarely seen one so fine and, I confess, sword-making is not one of Majja’s primary exports for good reason.”

Jeonghan does not allow his surprise to show on his face, but he feels it. It is most uncommon for nobility to confess to the shortcomings of their kingdoms, yet Prince Soonyoung does so as though it bears no real thought, simply a fact to be shared. Interesting.

“It was made by that same friend, Sire,” Minghao says. He lifts a hand, not quite touching the hilt before he asks, “Would you like to hold it?”

Prince Soonyoung’s face lights up like a child on Wintercrest Eve. “May I?” he asks, delighted, practically vibrating in place as both his hands shoot out, his eyes fixated on the sword.

Minghao draws the weapon smoothly and passes it over, offering it hilt-first to the foreign prince. Prince Soonyoung takes it with rather less care, the relative clumsiness of his hold irritating Jeonghan as he watches the prince make a few trial swipes. If he is going to touch something so valuable, the least he can do is treat it with respect. Minghao, however, seems amused, soothing Jeonghan somewhat, the quirk to his lips distracting and uplifting at once.

“A very fine blade,” Prince Soonyoung mutters, holding it out straight to sight along the length of it. “Very fine. What friend of yours did you say made it?”

“I did not say, Sire,” Minghao says reservedly. “He prefers to remain anonymous. Sword making is not his trade.”

“What the hell does he do for money, then, if he does this for love?” Prince Soonyoung asks, the shock in his voice drawing a smile from Jeonghan, as does his crassness. Jeonghan likes a noble who is not so high on their own importance they cannot speak plainly. Prince Soonyoung examines the hilt, most likely searching for a maker’s mark to identify the swordsmith by. Obviously, he finds nothing, his disappointment palpable as he grips it firmly again, pointing the blade away from himself.

“He is an apothecary, Sire,” Minghao says. Jeonghan glances at him sidelong, the pieces clicking into place at this new information. “And an astronomer.”

“An apothecary, an astronomer, and a master sword smith,” Prince Soonyoung says wonderingly. “It is no wonder your kingdom is as grand as it is, Prince Jeonghan, with subjects such as these. And, of course, Sir Minghao as well.” He nods at Minghao, offering him the sword back with clear reluctance.

Minghao takes the weapon and sheaths it, Prince Soonyoung’s eyes following it all the while. “I am not a knight, Sire,” Minghao corrects him. “Just a bodyguard.”

Jeonghan looks away, discontent rising within him at the reminder. It is an ongoing point of contention between him and his mother, a fuck you for every time he has ever made her disappointed or infuriated. By all rights, for all Minghao’s years of service and for the true weight, scope, and nature of his position in Jeonghan’s life, he should be a knight. That he is not is far beyond maddening.

“Oh.” Prince Soonyoung is openly surprised. He glances at Jeonghan. “I assumed. Forgive me.”

“Minghao is much more than a knight, Prince Soonyoung,” Jeonghan says, pitching his voice to imperious boredom. “He is my right hand. I could not spare him were he to have such duties to attend to, despite the best attempts of our knight captain to convince me otherwise.”

“Of course,” Prince Soonyoung says, sounding knowingly wrong-footed for the first time in the course of the evening. “The prince’s Whisper needs no other title.”

Minghao makes no outward sign of discomfort, but Jeonghan knows he does not care for that title either. Jeonghan has made his peace with it, with the accuracy of it, but Minghao has always been strangely cagey about having his darker aspects invoked.

Behind him, the music swells, a new song playing, and Jeonghan seizes the opportunity to escape.

“Ah, I am afraid we must duck away, Prince Soonyoung,” he says, putting on a regretful smile and gesturing vaguely in the direction of the musicians. “The first dance will be held soon and I must prepare.”

“Yes, right,” Prince Soonyoung says, nodding furiously. “Absolutely. Which reminds me – I was meant to ask if you would allow me the honor of partnering you for a dance later in the evening. Perhaps your second?”

“You were meant to ask?” Jeonghan inquires, more stiffly than he means to. He knows who is behind Prince Soonyoung’s attentions full well, but the reminder still irks him.

Prince Soonyoung’s eyes widen. “Meant to ask!” he cries, clearly flustered. “I meant to ask you. I did. About a dance. With you. With me. I meant – I –”

“Perhaps later on,” Jeonghan says, cutting off his rambling. He smiles again, benevolent, letting the prince relax. “For now, I hope you will enjoy the party, Prince Soonyoung.”

“Prince Jeonghan,” Prince Soonyoung returns, looking relieved to have been rescued from his own faux pas.

Jeonghan inclines his head slightly and walks away, knowing that Minghao is following closely. This is confirmed when Jeonghan stops at the edge of the room, where the balcony doors stand wide open to let the crisp summer air into the crowded space.

“You could have let it slide,” Minghao says, a smile in his voice, from his right.

Jeonghan glances at him from the corner of his eye, pretending to be immersed in the sea of gowns and capes before him. He hums. “I could have,” he agrees. “But where would be the fun in that? And besides, if he cannot handle some light teasing, we would never work together.”

“You need not see much of each other,” Minghao points out lowly, stepping closer to him. “He is kind and agreeable; you could have a happy marriage with him.”

“But could _he_ have a happy marriage with _me_?” Jeonghan says, angling towards Minghao as much as he dares in such a public place. He drops his voice as well, reveling in the way Minghao leans in just that much more to hear him. “Everyone knows his affections have been even recently turned in a more easterly direction,” he continues quietly. “Towards Gent, specifically, where the third princess is said to be equally fond of him.”

“You could both keep other company,” Minghao says. “Marriages need not be exclusive, and few are among the nobility.”

“I will not take to my bed anyone who does not wish to be there.” On this, Jeonghan is firm. He is not so deluded as to think that such a requirement will prevent his parents from finding him a match – he is not the only gay prince, after all, especially if they expand their search beyond their more common allies to include those across the sea – but it is still a point on which he will not waver. If he is to have any chance at all of more than a loveless marriage, a union of convenience, then his partner must be at least theoretically capable of loving him back.

It may make Jeonghan a hypocrite for insisting on access to his future husband’s heart when his own has already been given away and rests now far from his own body, snug within the warmth of Minghao’s chest, the half dozen inches between them as good as miles to hold them apart, but he does not care. If he is forced to marry someone who is not Minghao, then he knows he will eventually be forced also to make peace with that decision. He is not blind to the reality that, no matter what Minghao says now, watching Jeonghan wed and bed someone else may be too much for him in the end. He may leave. He may leave Jeonghan, and who then will Jeonghan have to comfort him when all light goes out in the world, the only sparks left trailing after Minghao’s disappearing silhouette to haunt the shadows of Jeonghan’s dreams? Jeonghan will not stop him if he goes, but, if he goes, Jeonghan will _not_ be left alone.

It is selfish. It is hypocritical. It is wrong, even, perhaps, and Jeonghan _does not care_.

He wants what he cannot have. He wants Minghao. Since he cannot have that, he will take what he can as consolation.

“Sire,” Joshua says, coming up to him on his left, slipping into Jeonghan’s space easily to speak over the noise of the party. “Her Majesty would like you reminded that your first dance partner of the evening will be a statement, and that there are many important guests here who will be watching you. It is your first solstice ball as crown prince, officially, and this moment counts.”

Jeonghan nods, well aware of his mother’s concerns. “And does she have a recommendation for my partner in that first dance?” he asks, knowing she does.

“Prince Seungcheol is most favored among the court, Sire,” Joshua says neutrally. “And a particular favorite of your mother’s, despite his own … reservations regarding that honor. Your mother also recommends Prince Seokmin, who –”

Jeonghan laughs, full-bodied, unable to stop himself. Joshua pauses, watching him skeptically as Jeonghan doubles over and shoves a hand against his mouth, smothering himself to silence. It takes several minutes for him to get himself under control again, set off into another reel of laughter every time he looks up and sees Joshua’s unamused face.

Finally, he manages calm once more and straightens up, clutching a hand over his racing heart. He is breathing heavily, and Minghao notices, of course, immediately crowding close to check on him. Jeonghan bats him away, shaking his head.

“I am fine,” he assures him honestly. He is not in danger of an attack right now; he would feel it if he was. He is just very, very amused. He turns again to Joshua. “Seokmin?” he asks, incredulous, barely managing not to laugh again. “Little Seokminnie?”

“His eldest brother died last winter, which puts him second in line for the throne, a position that will afford great opportunity to a future partner now that he is due the lion’s share of the money set aside for such matters,” Joshua says. “Aerenthe has gold and horses. It would be an advantageous match. _And_ – he likes you.”

“Yes, well, I was practically his nanny when we were young,” Jeonghan reminds him. “He and his sister used to summer here, before their father sent them abroad to study. When he was six he asked me to marry him, but I rather doubt he would be as impressed by my fish-people drawing skills now as he was then, so the proposal is not likely to be renewed.”

“He is unlikely to say no if _you_ renew it,” Joshua says pointedly.

“Which one is Prince Seungcheol?” Jeonghan asks, turning his head out towards the ballroom equally pointedly.

“There,” Joshua says, nodding subtly, “in the green and gold.”

“Handsome,” Jeonghan acknowledges. Beside him, Minghao shifts, stepping away from Jeonghan, sliding back into the hiding place created by the thick drapes behind them – disappearing, as he is meant to do in the sight of the court. Jeonghan stops him. “What do you think, Minghao?” he asks quickly, forcing Minghao to come back to him so that he can answer.

Minghao does, and follows the line of Jeonghan’s gaze when he flicks his eyes over to the prince in question. Minghao’s expression is inscrutable as he evaluates the prince, and as he turns back to look at Jeonghan.

“Handsome,” he agrees blandly.

Jeonghan feels a pressure around his heart twist and tighten, Minghao’s unhappiness affecting him as though it were his own. And no wonder – Jeonghan’s heart belongs to Minghao; it is only right it should feel what he feels.

Minghao does not hold his gaze, already slipping away from Jeonghan even before he moves physically, and Jeonghan has a wild thought, panic gripping him in a chokehold as he realizes –

This is how it begins.

_No_.

“Minghao, come,” Jeonghan demands, grabbing him by the elbow as he steps out into the bustle of the crowd.

Minghao follows, of course he does, staying close enough that Jeonghan never has to strain to maintain his grip. Joshua is watching them, no doubt, but makes no move to intervene. Jeonghan wonders if it is because he does not yet realize what Jeonghan has planned, or if he does not think it his place to intercede. Perhaps he approves. Joshua has more than once surprised Jeonghan by the depth of his loyalty to Jeonghan specifically, not to his mother or his father or the nebulous concept of The Crown. It is almost humbling at times.

Jeonghan tows Minghao behind him to the edge of the dance floor, currently awash with party-goers making idle conversation, and looks over at the maestro. The distinguished older woman catches his eye and understanding dawns quickly. Almost immediately, she spurs the musicians to action, starting up the prelude to the first waltz, letting everyone know it is time to clear the floor.

“Sire,” Minghao murmurs, tugging halfheartedly against Jeonghan’s grip. “Shall I fetch Prince Seungcheol?”

“No, Minghao, you shall not,” Jeonghan tells him firmly. “Tonight, my first dance must make a statement. It is Mother’s insistence – you heard Joshua as well as I did.”

“Sire,” Minghao says again, even more softly.

“Minghao,” Jeonghan returns, feeling brave and stubborn and reckless.

“_Jeonghan_,” Minghao says, a bit desperately, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself or with Jeonghan or how to handle this moment.

That is alright. Minghao so often moves first, reaches out, protects, supports, gives Jeonghan all he could want within the bounds they are permitted before Jeonghan can even ask. For tonight, Jeonghan can act first. For tonight, Jeonghan is pressing against those bounds they are restricted by, and they will give – not much, not forever, but for tonight, for a dance, they will give.

Jeonghan slides his hand down Minghao’s arm, laces his fingers through Minghao’s for a moment, and holds his gaze. Minghao looks afraid, his eyes wide and hands faintly trembling. Jeonghan brings his other hand up, brushing across Minghao’s cheek, and then around to the back of his neck to hold him there. As soon as his palm lands, pressing down upon the brand, Minghao shudders, something breaking open in his eyes, and he drops his head to press his forehead against Jeonghan’s. Their masks catch against each other, fumbling the angle, but Jeonghan does not care. He holds Minghao tighter with both hands, pulling them closer together, feeling settled only when Minghao does the same, his free hand resting on Jeonghan’s side lightly, then more firmly, then more firmly still, expensive fabric bunched in his grip as he holds on.

The music starts, the traditional waltz for the first dance of the Summer Solstice Ball, to be danced by the eldest child and heir to the royal line with a partner of their parents’ choosing until they come of age, and then – well. Whoever they dance with then makes a statement.

Jeonghan should adjust his grip. He is supposed to hold Minghao by the shoulder, since Minghao’s hand is resting on his waist. He doesn’t. It is a bit awkward, but he keeps his hand on Minghao’s neck, covering the brand he can feel beneath his palm. Just for tonight, Minghao’s past does not matter. It never matters to Jeonghan, and tonight he will not let it matter to anyone else either. He will keep Minghao’s darkness covered, hidden away where it cannot hurt either of them, for as long as he can.

When they begin to move, it is seamless in a way that surprises Jeonghan in how natural and perfect it feels. Jeonghan has been trained to dance since he was old enough to walk, and Minghao – Minghao has trained himself to move with Jeonghan, to breathe as he breathes and step as he steps, for seven years now. Without Jeonghan’s experience, Minghao should seem clumsy by comparison, but he is the farthest thing from it.

Moving together, it is like they are one body, giving and taking in equal measure, the rise and fall of the music guiding them in never-ending circles around the floor, trusting their feet to carry them and each other to hold them up, unwilling to look away for even a second from each other’s eyes.

Minghao’s eyes are bright beneath his mask, the darkness of them fading into the black lace that covers him even as they shine like onyx in the candlelight. Jeonghan knows what he sees in them. Love. More than he has ever been sure before, he is certain. So he stares back and hopes that Minghao can read the same in his eyes, because he knows the sheer volume of what he is feeling now must be pouring out of him, must be obvious even to those who do not know him as completely, as intimately, as Minghao does.

The hand at his waist twitches, gripping tighter, and Jeonghan presses his hand closer against Minghao’s neck in response. The hitch in Minghao’s breathing almost makes him stumble, but Minghao catches him, smoothing out the moment of distraction as he smooths all of Jeonghan’s rough edges.

It is perfect. This moment is perfect. It is all he could ever ask for, and if he could have wish it would be that this moment never end, because here, in this moment, he is happy like he has never been before and never will be again. When the moment ends, he and Minghao will be separated again, his heart forced to stand behind him and to the side, deferential when he should be equal, distant when he should be close.

It may break his heart when this moment ends, but, until then, he holds Minghao closer – closer still than he was already, finding that it is possible when he thought perhaps it wasn’t. Minghao holds him back, warm and alive beneath his hands, and they breathe together, move together, dance together.

As they take their final turns, the song passing far too quickly and leaving them far too soon on their last circuit of the dance floor, Minghao releases his side, his hand skimming up Jeonghan’s body even as his feet keep moving on, graceful and fluid, his fingers stopping only when they reach the lower edge of Jeonghan’s mask. Jeonghan’s breath catches, mesmerized by the way Minghao is staring at him, as though Jeonghan holds his whole soul in his hands. The pad of Minghao’s finger traces the edge of the mask, below his eye, across his cheekbone, following the delicate papier-mâché and satin up and around, stopping to slide just beneath the ribbon where it begins to wrap around Jeonghan’s head.

Jeonghan wants him to take it off. He wants Minghao to unmask him, here in front of everyone, and let them all see where Jeonghan’s heart truly lies.

For a moment, he thinks Minghao wants that, too.

They stay there, frozen, watching each other, for long seconds. Jeonghan would be afraid of what Minghao might read in his expression – do it, I want you to, who cares what they think? – but Minghao could never frighten him. Minghao always pulls back when Jeonghan fails to. He always thinks of what Jeonghan wants, truly wants, even when Jeonghan is lying about it, willing to wait him out as long as it takes for Jeonghan to voice his true heart and mind, always wanting to make sure that Jeonghan does nothing he regrets.

Jeonghan is certain he would not regret this, could not regret choosing Minghao, but he knows also that this moment must end – regardless of what he wants. And oh, how much he _wants_.

The last strains of the waltz break through the spell Jeonghan is under, training and muscle memory kicking in as his body reminds him to finish the dance. He tilts his head and Minghao lets his hand fall away, sliding back down to Jeonghan’s side, fingers spread in easy intimacy.

Gods but Jeonghan does not want this moment to end.

It does, though, it must, and Jeonghan spins them towards the dais at the end of the hall reluctantly. Minghao follows his lead, moving with him elegantly, perfectly, to glide to a halt in front of the queen and king where the crowd has parted for them to be received. Whether or not they actually will be is an interesting question.

The music stops, the silence that follows it charged as the entire room waits with bated breath for the Queen’s response.

Jeonghan should have known she would not give him the satisfaction.

Like last year, and the year before that, and the year before that, the Queen’s only response to Jeonghan’s light bow – and Minghao’s much deeper one – is to stand, elegant and refined, and then, gracefully, to clap. The rest of the hall breaks into applause after her, the din soon thunderous as Mother taps her fingers lightly against her palm, her gaze fixed upon Jeonghan with the most rigid smile he has ever seen across her face. She is very good at holding a mask – Jeonghan learned from the best. Her literal mask aids her tonight, obscuring the better half of her features, rendering it likely that only Jeonghan and his father are able to see through her show.

When she stops clapping, the ballroom once again falls silent, waiting for her verdict. She gives none, resuming her seat without comment. Then again, perhaps that is verdict enough. It is customary to give a benediction for the evening, to bless the night’s festivities and, in particular, the youth, represented by the royal heir, for another year. Her silence speaks loud enough for all to hear.

With a rigid smile of his own static on his face, Jeonghan inclines his head to her, letting her know that he understands perfectly what has been communicated but not said, and then, to let her know also that he does not give a fuck about it, he takes Minghao’s hand more firmly into his own, raises it to his lips, and kisses it.

Beside him, Minghao inhales sharply, his fingers twitching against Jeonghan’s skin.

Jeonghan lowers their joined hands but does not let go, holding Mother’s gaze until he no longer can as he turns, sweeping back onto the empty dance floor and across it, trailing Minghao behind him in a firm grip. The party-goers part for them like sand, unresisting, staring wide-eyed as the prince and his Shadow pass. Jeonghan does not stop, does not pause, until he reaches the balcony, pulling Minghao more securely to his side and, with a glance, dismissing the few nobles who had strayed out of doors. In seconds, they are alone, and, without looking, Jeonghan hears the doors swing shut, sealing them off in their own little world.

It is quiet outside, the music that has started up again drifting out to them only faintly, the only other sound the temperate fall of the fountains down in the courtyard below.

He says nothing for a moment, for several moments, and Minghao keeps the silence too. Minghao’s hand is warm in his, and he wonders if his palm is sweaty. The thought makes him jerk away, dropping Minghao’s hand, but he cannot stand to stop touching Minghao now completely, so he slips his hand around Minghao’s elbow, as he did in the hall, but more gently this time, not demanding but coaxing Minghao into shadowing him over to the far reach of the balcony.

As he did before, as he always does, Minghao follows him willingly.

Jeonghan keeps one hand on Minghao; the other he splays upon the wrought iron railing, twisting his palm over it again and again. Minghao is quiet, needing no words to read Jeonghan, allowing him his nervous tic but soothing him all the same by stepping more fully into Jeonghan’s line of sight, bracing his back against the balustrade so that he can look at Jeonghan steadily, a pale smile tugging at his lips.

Impulsively, Jeonghan reaches out, releasing the railing to brush his fingers into Minghao’s hair, letting the soft strands sift through his fingers briefly and then catching them, tucking the lock behind Minghao’s ear.

Minghao’s smile widens, still subtle but indulgent, lit in darkened gold by the torches at Jeonghan’s back.

As the moment drags on, Jeonghan is struck by the absolute, overwhelming certainty that, if he does not distract himself, he will kiss Minghao. He wants to kiss Minghao. He should not kiss Minghao. He already strong-armed Minghao into dancing with him; the next move should fall to Minghao, should be Minghao’s to set the pace by.

If, indeed, Minghao intends to set any kind of pace at all between them.

Minghao is watching him, that smile lingering, and Jeonghan is going to kiss him if he does not do something else soon. Now. Immediately.

“So Junhui made your sword,” he says, suddenly and too loud, part relieved and mostly disappointed when Minghao leans back slightly at the abrupt remark. “He is, I believe, the only apothecary you know, after all, so it must be him,” Jeonghan continues, benignly, stupidly. “At the least, he is the only apothecary you consider to be a friend, I am quite certain. So, logically, it must be him. Who else could it be?”

Minghao nods, if a bit reluctantly, easing back farther still, settling himself more firmly against the rail behind him. “He does not wish for it to be generally known, Sire,” he says, his voice more or less normal, the moment they were suspended in gone, it seems.

Jeonghan should not feel this frustrated by that realization – it is, after all, by his design that it is so.

Minghao is guarded, watching Jeonghan warily, and Jeonghan recognizes that he is waiting for some sort of reassurance as to Jeonghan’s secrecy. He rushes to give it.

“I will not tell,” Jeonghan promises. He means it. He is grateful to Junhui, who comforts and stays by Minghao when Jeonghan himself cannot. Junhui is a good man and a better friend; Jeonghan is glad he is in Minghao’s life, even if the jealousy sometimes drives him a touch mad. “An astronomer too, though – that is impressive,” he adds, wanting to keep the conversation going else they fall into that charged silence again – or Minghao walk away.

“How did you think I am able to so accurately predict which sunsets I must drag you out of the castle to see?” Minghao asks, a teasing smile coming back to his lips. “Surely you did not think I was some sort of magician?”

You are magic, though, Jeonghan thinks nonsensically, staring at him, at the feeble torchlight catching in his eyes as he stares at Jeonghan back, the line of his mouth poised for a laugh, beautiful and appealing. Almost angelic. Almost irresistible. He clears his throat.

“Has astronomy come so far?” he asks mildly, teasing as well. It is safer – safer than the alternative. “To be able to predict the sun’s movements as well as the clouds? I certainly would mark that closer to witchcraft than science.”

Minghao shrugs, his hair slipping out from where Jeonghan tucked it as he tilts his head. “Perhaps Junhui dabbles in both,” he says, leaning closer again, not quite in Jeonghan’s space but close enough for the moment to come back, the urge to touch and kiss and hold and _have_ absolutely overwhelming.

Jeonghan’s breath catches at the proximity, at the look in Minghao’s eyes. Fuck it. If Minghao kisses him, Jeonghan wants to kiss him back. He wants it more than he can put into word or thought.

“Sire,” Minghao says, subdued tension in the word, his eyes searching Jeonghan’s own.

“Yes, Minghao,” Jeonghan breathes out, an acquiescence, a promise, as much as it is a response, unable and unwilling to hold anything back now. Minghao can say anything, ask anything, and Jeonghan’s answer is yes.

“Why did you do that?” Minghao asks. He looks sad, suddenly, or maybe Jeonghan was not looking closely enough before, caught up in his own heady rush of triumph and self-satisfaction. Jeonghan abruptly, unexpectedly, feels cold. Minghao shakes his head slightly, glancing away and then bringing his gaze back to Jeonghan with a resolute set to his mouth. “Why did you make such fools of us both? For myself, I do not mind so much, but people will remember this and it will reflect poorly on you. Why did you not dance with Prince Seungcheol?”

“I did not want to dance with Prince Seungcheol,” Jeonghan murmurs petulantly, leaning closer to him, anxious to reclaim what hung between them a moment ago, viscerally glad when Minghao does not pull away. “I wanted to dance with you.”

“When have we ever been permitted to take what we want?” Minghao asks softly. His eyes wander Jeonghan’s face, over his eyes and nose and lips, before settling to the side of his mouth. An expression comes over him then that Jeonghan does not like. It is determination, but it is more than that. It is resignation.

“Minghao,” Jeonghan says, warning, pleading, he is not sure which. It does no good either way.

Slowly, Minghao leans forward, his hand coming up to cup the side of Jeonghan’s face, his hold soft and almost fever-warm against Jeonghan’s skin. He hesitates a moment, and now the sorrow in his eyes is unmistakable.

“_Minghao_.” Jeonghan is begging now, the fear clear in his voice. He feels frantic, panic-stricken, but he cannot move, can only watch as Minghao closes the distance between them and presses his lips to Jeonghan’s skin, just to the left of where Jeonghan wants them.

“Jeonghan,” Minghao whispers, pressing the name into his skin, into his mouth nearly but not quite. He lingers there for a moment, for another, his eyes falling closed.

Jeonghan does not dare move, though his hands itch to hold Minghao here, to seize and restrain him so that he cannot do what Jeonghan is terrified he is about to do. All he can do is whisper, rough and desperate.

“Don’t go.”

Minghao pulls away. He leaves Jeonghan cold every place he had warmed him. He steps back, away from Jeonghan, his hand sliding from Jeonghan’s grip last, the ends of his fingers catching at the edge of Jeonghan’s palm as Jeonghan’s hand twitches towards him, not quite grabbing him back but wanting to.

“I will not say it,” Minghao says quietly, another step removing him from Jeonghan. Jeonghan cannot see his face anymore, backlit as he is by the torchlight. “I will spare you that,” he adds, barely loud enough for Jeonghan to hear.

_Say it,_ Jeonghan wants to say. _If you are leaving me at least leave me with this._

He does not speak. He cannot. His throat is closed, squeezed tight with choking pressure that Jeonghan knows will come out as an ugly sob if he opens his mouth. Minghao should not see him cry. Minghao must be allowed to walk away.

For another moment, Minghao stays, and Jeonghan drinks in as much of him as he can. He pours obsessively over the lines of him he will not see again, the way his hair dances around his shadowed face, the way he holds himself, his hands, the outlines of his fingers, the exact slope of his shoulders, because he knows, as deeply as he knows that he will never recover from this, never let Minghao go within the only place he is allowed to hold him, that Minghao will not let himself be seen again. He will think he is doing Jeonghan a kindness, giving him room to move on, and he will vanish into the night like the thief he once was.

The thief he still is, making off with Jeonghan’s heart; a heart freely given but never intended to be stolen so far away.

Jeonghan draws a shuddering breath, seeing the echoing gasp in Minghao’s chest. His eyes slip closed, warding off the tears that threaten to fall.

When he opens them, Minghao is gone.

Jeonghan does not collapse. He does not fall to the marble beneath him and weep, though his body and soul ache for the release. He cannot afford to. Joshua will come for him soon, to drag him back to the party, an inquiring look asking after Minghao’s whereabouts but not vocalizing the question, and Jeonghan will be grateful to have someone to lean on and he will let Joshua keep an eye on him, suspicious and concerned, and when Joshua escorts him back to his room past midnight, the wine Jeonghan intends to drink heavy in his stomach, _then_ he will weep. But not now. Not when Minghao might still hear him, lurking in the shadows to see Jeonghan safely inside.

The thought is comforting, that Minghao might still be close. Surely he would not leave Jeonghan vulnerable. He will not go until Jeonghan returns to the party.

So Jeonghan will not return to the party.

He turns and leans heavily upon the balustrade, looking out over the palace grounds. He can see the hill from here, the lilac bush a smudge on the horizon. Maybe he will ride out, ride over to the hill – their hill – to stargaze. He is only really needed here at midnight, to stand by Mother’s side when the bell tolls and she says a prayer of hope and supplication for this year’s harvest. Yes, a ride would do him good. He can clear his head.

Already, he feels calmer, the night air bracing him as he turns his thoughts forward, outward, rather than inward and back. He will have to saddle Beauty Mark himself, since all the servants have been given the night off from the start of the festivities till midnight. That is no problem. He wonders if Minghao will risk falling behind to stay in the shadows or if he will fold to the inevitable and join Jeonghan, harness Stormcloud beside him in the close air of the stables. Either way, he will not be able to remain hidden once Jeonghan reaches the hill – he will have to reveal himself as he rides across the open field whether he tails Jeonghan closely or waits to follow at a distance.

Yes, this is good. Jeonghan has a plan. He is always more comfortable with a plan, always prefers to think two or three or five steps ahead, even if he ends up fucking it all and doing something entirely unexpected instead. Like tonight. Tonight has been a series of unexpected things – of fuck-its and fuck-ups both.

All will be put to right soon enough, though. Minghao will not leave Jeonghan exposed to danger, and then, when he reveals himself, Jeonghan can talk some sense into him. He wasn’t able to say his piece before, too taken off guard by the suddenness of it all. Minghao owes him a chance to speak his mind, to attempt to change Minghao’s mind with logic and the many, many foolproof arguments that are, even now, forming in Jeonghan’s mind. If he still wants to leave after that, Jeonghan will let him, but Minghao owes him this.

He owes him a chance to say it, at least, even if it makes no difference, even if it makes it harder for both of them. Jeonghan wants to say it. He needs to say it. He needs to know that Minghao will carry the words with him all his days, will know, even if he walks away, that Jeonghan loves him, will always love him, will always want him and wish for his happiness. He needs to know.

Jeonghan steps away from the railing, gaze lingering on the hill, distracted and inattentive to his more immediate surroundings.

When the arrow comes, he does not even feel it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be complete, art needs to be seen, experienced, witnessed. So – thank you for reading my fic. I’d love it if you left a comment so I know you engaged with it, because that truly is the goal of every written work – to be engaged with – and it’s always wonderfully gratifying and vitalizing to get confirmation of that from the reader.


	3. Chapter 3

Jeonghan wakes to damp air and ice beneath his cheek, his side, his bare feet. He opens his eyes and finds himself in a cellar, smooth stone rising on every side, featureless and lightless except for the barest sliver of an orange glow that sparks out from under a door at the top of the staircase to Jeonghan’s left. He is alone and the bulk of his fancy party attire has been stripped away, leaving him in his pants and shirt but nothing else, the thin fabrics doing little to protect him against the cold.

He gets to his knees, struggling a little as he discovers that his hands are chained in front of him, and then stands, only to crumple immediately. His leg is afire, sharp pain lancing up and down from a single point in his upper thigh, and he clutches at it vainly, doubled over on the floor.

Poison – it must be. He remembers, now that he tries, standing on the balcony at the solstice ball. He remembers Minghao, talking to him, closing his eyes and being alone. He remembers planning to ride out to the hill, moving to go do just that, and then –

Nothing. He was attacked, clearly. Kidnapped.

… But if he was kidnapped, then where is Minghao? How did they take him if Minghao was there? He knows Minghao did not leave him when he disappeared into the dark of the night, knows he must have lingered, yet he was unable to prevent these unknown enemies from taking Jeonghan right from within the palace grounds.

The only possible explanation is that he is dead. Nothing else would stop Minghao from getting to him. But if Minghao is dead then Jeonghan is dead too – not yet, perhaps, not physically, but he won’t survive this, he knows that, and so Minghao cannot be dead because Jeonghan is not ready to die.

He can’t be dead. Jeonghan won’t let him be.

Jeonghan struggles to his knees again, knowing better than to attempt to stand, looking around as best he can. There is nothing to see, really. Crates are stacked sloppily against the wall across from his cell, likely shoved aside to make room for this roughly constructed prison. The bars feel solid and unyielding when Jeonghan grips them, shaking and pulling on them to no avail, despite the slightly askew way they have been installed.

His cell is small, barely large enough for him to lie down in without curling his legs in, and the ceiling is uncomfortably low. This is, of course, the least of his problems. They took his concealed dagger, he can tell without checking, the place at his side where it rests at all hours of the day disconcertingly vacant. He feels vulnerable without its reassuring weight, though there is not much he could do even if he had it. They took his jewelry, too, which he might have been able to make some use of. Jeonghan is not trained in combat, but he could surely find _some_ way to make a person bleed with the artfully crafted pendants and heavy rings he wore a few hours ago.

Or – wait. How long ago was that? There is no light down here but the faintly flickering glimmer of what must be a torch, so he cannot judge if it is still night or day. How long has he been missing? Someone must know he is gone by now; by now, they must be searching for him.

If his parents arrive only to discover his corpse, won’t that please them. He chuckles darkly, amused by the idea. They will have no choice but to put one of his cousins on the throne at that point – perhaps it will make them realize that Jeonghan was not quite the disappointment and nuisance they thought him to be.

And if he escapes, well. They will never have grounds to call him useless again, after that.

Not that either option is likely. If they wanted him dead, whoever these people are, they would have shot him in the chest instead of the leg and left him to bleed to death on the balcony of the royal ballroom, mere feet away from guards and nobles and the Queen and King all. That would have made a statement like no other, would have opened the kingdom up to attacks from all sides as they were stripped bare for their weakness so definitively. But they did not do that. They took him alive, which means they seek not his death but a bounty.

They must intend to ransom him, and so Jeonghan can and should do nothing more and nothing less than sit quietly and wait for the situation to resolve itself. His parents are callous and ever dissatisfied with him, but he remains their sole heir and to lose him would look like weakness.

Jeonghan shuffles over to the wall facing the door and lowers himself to sit against it, watching the stairs in the wavering dark. The light is just great enough to see shadows, the vague pillars of the cell bars and the sharp edges of tottering crates, the rough wood of the first few steps leading down to where Jeonghan must wait.

He is prepared to wait a while before anyone comes to see him, and so he is surprised when the door opens but a few minutes later. He is more surprised when he sees that the dark huddle at the top of the stairs seems to be three men, two of them roughly handling the third.

The man in the center is shoved down the steps, unable to catch himself with his hands chained in the same manner as Jeonghan’s, and he falls to the floor just shy of the front of Jeonghan’s cell.

Jeonghan sits forward, craning his neck to get a better view. Another noble, perhaps? There were many visiting princes and princesses. Two ransoms for the hassle of one – it is very clever of them.

He can see, now that more light is flooding in from upstairs, that there are two cells in the basement, the space divided evenly and separated by the same black metal bars that fence Jeonghan in across the front of his cage where the cell door is. The other man is dragged to his feet in front of this other cell, one of their jailers opening the door while the other grabs the prisoner by his hair, jerking his head back and revealing his face for the first time.

For a moment, Jeonghan is certain his heart stops beating in his chest. Every inch of him goes cold, not from the freezing dirt beneath his feet but from the icy fear that grips him as his eyes meet the dark ones staring back at him.

Minghao smiles at him, the expression grotesquely colored by the blood in his mouth, on his teeth, dripping down his chin, as the man holding him shoves him forward, into the cell, kicking at him when he falls to the floor. Minghao holds Jeonghan’s gaze, steady and calm, still smiling, as the guards grumble to each other and turn to go.

Jeonghan had wanted to question them, to ask what their strategy is and how much they are demanding for his safe return, but that plan crumbles as he stares, captivated and horrified, at Minghao.

It is only when they are left alone, the door closing behind their captors with a dull thud and casting them once again into darkness, that Minghao speaks.

“I am so relieved you are awake, Sire,” he says warmly, as though he has come to get Jeonghan up out of his extravagantly fitted bed in the morning to attend to a particularly stunning sunrise.

“Minghao, why –” Jeonghan does not know where to begin. What comes out is: “Your hair.”

Minghao reaches up, the chains restricting him somewhat, and runs a hand through his hair at the side of his head. It is dark again, blacker than night, smooth and thick and soft-looking, all traces of silver gone. “Yes,” he says softly, still watching Jeonghan with greedy eyes, as though he is as afraid to look away as Jeonghan feels, “what Junhui did was far from permanent. It was intended to be special, for the masque, but I could hardly walk around with hair like that forever. It was very … conspicuous.”

“It looked good,” Jeonghan says dumbly.

There are so many more important things to discuss than Minghao’s hair, but, somehow, Jeonghan finds it difficult to say much else. He knew that Minghao could not be dead – he _knew_ that – but seeing him here is so different from just knowing it. Now, he _knows_ that Minghao is safe. Or, well, alive, at least.

“What happened to you?” Jeonghan asks, his eyes straining to track the damage done to Minghao’s face and body. There is so little light in here; he cannot get a good impression of how extensive his injuries are. “Why did they do this to you? They have not harmed me; why did they harm you?”

“They took exception to my actions when they attempted to remove you from the palace grounds,” Minghao says calmly. “Well, when they succeeded. I was unable to stop them. I am sorry, Sire.”

“Do not apologize, Minghao,” Jeonghan says, shaking his head. “I am fine.”

“You were shot, Sire,” Minghao returns. “They said the drug should be out of your system by now, but I know enough from Junhui’s talk of his trade that alchemy is, at best, more of an art than a science, and sleeping draughts are often more difficult to manage than other potions, even.”

“I do not feel its effects now,” Jeonghan says, checking his body quickly for internal signs of distress and finding none outside of the dull throb of the wound in his leg and a mild headache. It is Minghao he is worried for. “Are you badly hurt, Minghao? Tell me honestly.”

Minghao is silent for a moment. Jeonghan worries his lip with his teeth, waiting for him to speak. When he does, it is in a quiet, subdued voice.

“When the time comes, Sire,” Minghao says slowly, “I will be able to cause a distraction; there are only five of them here, and if I can get to a weapon I can strike that number lower still. When I do that, you must run.”

“Minghao –” Jeonghan protests, alarmed and horrified by the proposal. “I will not leave –”

“You must, Sire,” Minghao interrupts him, still so calmly but sharp now, his words cutting Jeonghan like a blade. “They have horses outside; I will keep them distracted and you must take one and scare the others off so that when I fall they cannot follow you. You must get to the palace before they can catch you. I think it is east of here, beyond the river, from what I saw last night.”

“I will not leave you, Minghao,” Jeonghan bites out, furious at the suggestion. He refuses to get out of here if Minghao does not, and there is no need for such sacrifice anyway – they intend to ransom Jeonghan, and he will insist they pay for Minghao as well. No one is going to die. “My parents will pay the ransom,” he says, projecting confidence he wishes to feel more than he does, “and even if they do not pay for yours, I will when I return home. I have my own money, and if I must steal it I know Joshua will help me do so. You will not sacrifice yourself for me – not today. We are both going home, Minghao; together or not, we are both surviving this.”

In the other cell, Minghao sighs. Jeonghan knows it not because he can hear the faint exhalation, as he cannot, but by the way Minghao’s posture folds forward, a slump to his shoulders Jeonghan has rarely seen. It lights another flame of anxiety in Jeonghan.

“Sire,” Minghao says, in a tone that is deadly serious, “they do not intend to ransom me. You, they will collect money for, yes, but I do not trust them to return you safely even if they receive all they ask. That is why you must do as I ask. You must run.”

Jeonghan stares at Minghao’s silhouette in the dark, watching the way Minghao stares at him as well, his eyes lost to the shadows but the direction of his gaze obvious. He clearly thinks he is being reasonable, rational and pragmatically cold, but any line of logic that leads Jeonghan to Minghao’s lifeless body is a line he refuses to follow.

Stubbornly, he asks, “And what of you? Why did they take you if they have no intention to ask a price for you as well? What could be their purpose?”

“They will drop my body onto the palace steps once you are returned, as a signal to the Crown’s enemies that the prince is vulnerable and, by extension, so is the throne,” Minghao says bluntly.

Jeonghan swallows roughly, the image that paints disturbingly vivid. In his mind, the blood he saw on Minghao’s face expands across his body, pooling beneath him on white granite, his skin faded to a pallor almost as pale as the stone.

“But, as I said, I do not trust them to return you without harm – or even at all,” Minghao continues, as though he has not just put in Jeonghan’s head a scene that will surely haunt his nightmares. “Which is why we must act of our own volition and not rely upon their promises.”

“And how do you know this?” Jeonghan croaks out, his throat feeling dry and rough. He blinks, trying to dispel that image of Minghao, dead and cut open, but it lingers in the darkness. He wants to see Minghao’s face, to see the life in his eyes. He moves closer to the bars separating them, shuffling until he is pressed against them.

Minghao mimics him, joining him at the bars and, when Jeonghan’s hands come up, he takes them in his own as much as he can. Their fingers tangle, the chains on their wrists preventing them from touching more than that. Minghao’s skin is reassuringly warm against Jeonghan’s own.

Leaning closer, his eyes visible now, though only just, with this proximity, Minghao stares at Jeonghan levelly. “Because they told me,” he says lowly. “They told me that while they were beating me for the pieces I took out of each of them, and in their eyes I saw no lie. They will not let me live, and I will not let you die. You must promise to run, Jeonghan. Please. For me. Promise.”

Jeonghan will not. He cannot. If he has a chance to run but it would mean leaving Minghao behind, he will not take it. Minghao will not like that, so he says nothing; he makes no refusal so that Minghao can make no rebuttal, no further arguments that will only exhaust them both.

Minghao seems to know Jeonghan’s mind, as he almost always does. He sighs again, his breath catching in his lungs and coming out as a cough, wet and dangerous sounding. That is supposed to be Jeonghan’s gimmick – coughing and choking on his own lungs – and he finds that he likes it not at all when Minghao takes the role from him. The sound of it is worrying. It makes Jeonghan think that, in their beating, their captors may have punctured a lung.

Jeonghan tugs on Minghao’s hands, trying to pull him closer even though closer does not exist right now, the bars between them ensuring that. Minghao comes anyway, ever faithful and responsive to Jeonghan’s needs, always there when Jeonghan turns to look for him, always answering even before Jeonghan thinks to ask the question.

Minghao leans his forehead against the bars and Jeonghan does the same. It is a hollow imitation of the similar moment they had during the ball – so long ago now, it seems, though it cannot be more than mere hours since they danced in front of his parents and Prince Soonyoung and all the gods that cared to watch – but Jeonghan takes comfort from it even so. No matter the circumstances, he wants to be close to Minghao; that much, at least, is exactly the same.

“I will get you out of here, Sire,” Minghao says, his voice a whisper in the space between them.

“And I will bring you with me, Minghao,” Jeonghan promises back. “Even if you try to stop me.”

For a time, after that, they fall silent. There is much more to say – Jeonghan has not forgotten what transpired at the ball just before this disaster began, the disaster that preceded this disaster, but he also knows to take _this_ moment for what it is. And so he does. He holds Minghao as close as he is able and feels grateful that he can, that at least, for whatever else happens, he has been granted a second chance to say goodbye.

~~~

The door is thrown open with a creak and thud that makes Jeonghan jump, the metal-bounded wood ricocheting violently off the wall as it is thrown aside to make way for three figures that come storming down, one bearing a torch and all with expressions of fury.

Minghao grips Jeonghan’s fingers tighter, his eyes darting about frantically as he no doubt comes to the same realization that Jeonghan has: they cannot protect each other from whatever happens next; they cannot reach each other and, whoever their captors have come for, the other will be forced to watch uselessly while they do whatever they have come to do.

Jeonghan locks his fingers around Minghao’s as well, digging his nails in and pressing himself against the bars. He watches as the three men come thundering down the stairs, bypassing Minghao’s cell – thank the gods – and stopping before the door to Jeonghan’s. Minghao’s hands spasm in Jeonghan’s hold, as though he is trying to pull Jeonghan closer to him, through into his own cell where he can shield Jeonghan with his body.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Jeonghan says, surprisingly himself with how easily the false cheer and polite phrases come to his lips. “Or is it morning now? I am afraid I have no idea of the time at present.”

The men ignore him. One produces a key from his pocket and opens the cell door. Jeonghan shuffles back instinctively, Minghao mirroring him so that they can stay pressed together through the bars.

“The Queen will be displeased if you return him marked,” Minghao says sharply, nothing but steel in his voice despite the panicked way he clings to Jeonghan’s hands.

“The Queen is the one who demands blood,” the tallest of the three sneers, stepping into the cell and grabbing at Jeonghan’s arm.

Jeonghan kicks him. It is reflexive and satisfying, though perhaps not the best course of action, he realizes, when the fight proves to be even shorter lived than he anticipated and he is shoved to the floor, his face pressed to the dirt.

“Be still, princeling, and this need not hurt too badly,” the man hisses, drawing a dagger from his belt.

“Do not harm him!” Minghao shouts, his voice echoing in the small space. “You will have more than the Crown to answer to if a single drop of his blood is spilled!”

Jeonghan can neither see him nor reply to him with his head held down the way it is, so he can offer no comfort as Minghao continues to shout behind the bulk of the man pinning Jeonghan to the floor. He holds his breath, waiting for pressure on his throat and a sharp pain, but only one of those comes. He feels a slice across his arm, the blade dull enough to drag and pull at the skin agonizingly, and then his head is jerked sharply as the dagger flashes in the corner of his eye again and locks of dark hair fall to the floor in front of him.

The man with the dagger releases Jeonghan and sweeps the hair into his hand, the dagger glinting red as he holds it out to one of the others. The second man takes it and shakes it over a piece of parchment that looks to have writing on it, the script dark and sharp-edged. The hair is then added to the page as well before the whole thing is folded up tightly and disappears from Jeonghan’s line of sight as the second man steps out of the cell. The man kneeling over him, stilling holding him down with a hand between his shoulder blades, pushes him down harshly as he stands and steps back, joining the other two outside the cell.

The door is slammed shut – first the door to Jeonghan’s cell and then the door to the basement, leaving them in near complete darkness once again. Jeonghan’s breathing is quick and labored. It takes him a few minutes to realize that Minghao is speaking.

“– breathe, Jeonghan, just breathe, it’s alright, I’m here, Jeonghan, just breathe, breathe, you’re alright, breathe, Jeonghan, Jeonghan, Jeonghan, please, talk to me, talk to me –”

“I am –” Jeonghan grates out, pausing to cough uncontrollably into the dirt. His chest feels tight and he closes his eyes, bracing for the attack he knows he cannot stop now. “I need you.”

“I am here, Jeonghan,” Minghao says, sounding frantic and desperate. He is here, but not where Jeonghan needs him.

Jeonghan reaches out blindly, groping for Minghao’s hand in the dark as the coughing worsens, his entire body shaking with the force of it. He feels lightheaded and he does not know if that is the receding adrenaline or the lack of oxygen he is getting now. Perhaps it is both.

What little he could see is fading, he is sweating and beginning to panic despite himself, and the only solace he gets is that, just before he loses touch with everything but the wracking pain and terror of an attack such that he has not had in years, he feels Minghao’s fingers find his and hold on, locking them together even as Jeonghan’s own grip falls lax and useless as his neck and chest seize up, his lungs turning themselves inside out in a desperate bid for –

~~~

When Jeonghan wakes, he thinks for a moment he is back home. His cheek is pressed to something soft and Minghao’s familiar scent soothes him almost back to sleep – but something keeps him awake.

Minghao is mumbling, and Jeonghan would normally by endeared by that, but he sounds distressed. Jeonghan must go to him.

He drags his eyes open with difficulty and is met with darkness. He moves his hand tentatively, reminded of his chains – and their circumstances – when it drags his other hand with it. Minghao’s voice stops, a sharp inhalation loud in the relative quiet of the room, and then there is a hand in his hair. It is Minghao’s hand, Jeonghan would know it anywhere, and he relaxes into it for several long, luxurious seconds, before the incongruousness of the situation as compared to what he remembers dawns on him.

He tries to sit up, movements jagged and stumbling, but Minghao keeps him down with a gentle hand brushing across his temple, urging him to be still and leave his head in Minghao’s lap. “What,” Jeonghan tries, but his throat is rough from the attack, and the word is mostly unintelligible.

“It’s alright,” Minghao says softly, “if you can sit up, I have water for you. Can you drink it?”

Water sounds amazing, so Jeonghan nods, even though the prospect of sitting up is far from appealing. Minghao helps him, taking most of his weight and guiding Jeonghan to sit so that his back is against the wall and Minghao can bring a metal cup to his lips. He drinks greedily, the water soothing his throat but only so much. Minghao always brings him tea or milk with honey after an attack, or at least has Mingyu bring it; plain water does not help as much, but it is better than nothing.

Now with something to calm his throat, Jeonghan tries again to speak. “What happened?” he asks, able to infer some of it – he had an attack and passed out – but clueless about other details, such as Minghao’s mysterious, though welcome, appearance in Jeonghan’s cell.

“The attack was bad,” Minghao says, running his fingers through Jeonghan’s hair again. “I yelled until they came down and then convinced them to let me in here and to bring you water for when you woke up. They were frightened enough to do as I said; they do not want you dead yet.”

“Very soon, though, I wager,” Jeonghan says with a dull laugh. “They took my blood. And my hair. For my mother.”

“She will pay the ransom now,” Minghao says, the assurance falling hollow as they both know it may not be the truth.

Jeonghan had been so sure that his mother would pay, would be eager to have him returned, but now … if she has put them off once already, demanding proof despite the fact that lying under these circumstances would be so improbable – the prince goes missing, someone claims to have taken him; it is not difficult to connect those lines – then Jeonghan is no longer certain she wants him back at all. Perhaps she has decided, now that it comes to it, that a dreaded cousin is better than a delinquent son, a safer bet, a more worthy investment to mold to her specifications.

“If she does not pay,” Jeonghan says mildly, “and pay quickly, then we may have need of an escape plan after all. We will have to start from scratch, though; your plan is stupid and impractical. How am I to get back to the palace if you are dead? Unreasonable. No, you must come with me. I will not escape without you.”

He takes another long draught of the water, draining the cup entirely. His throat is still sore, as is his chest. He lifts a hand to rub at it, but Minghao anticipates him and places his own hand over the center of Jeonghan’s chest, massaging slow circles there. Jeonghan lets his hand drop to his lap, the empty cup cradled in his lax fingers.

“What good am I as a future king, either, if you are not at my side?” he asks, not directing the question to Minghao so much as to himself, to the aether, to the darkness surrounding them.

Minghao answers him anyway.

“You are the future of this country, Sire,” Minghao says, his tone soothing, attempting to placate Jeonghan, “with or without me. I am just a bodyguard; you are the prince, and one day you will be king. Your people need you – I have nothing to do with it.”

“You have a very great deal to do with it,” Jeonghan contradicts him, a bit sharply. “As we both know. There is no use pretending otherwise – without you, I am no prince. I am weak and worthless, too much a foreign prince’s son, perhaps, or maybe just a mistake.”

“Do not speak of yourself this way,” Minghao snaps, clearly distressed. His hand has gone still on Jeonghan’s chest, resting over his breastbone.

Jeonghan scoffs, looking away. “I will speak of myself any way I wish,” he rebukes harshly, staring at the smooth, featureless wall to his left. “I am the prince. _You_ are an assassin turned nanny. _I_ am the prince.” He closes his eyes, turning his head farther away from Minghao, who has gone silent.

The moment hangs frigid between them, a boundary raised more cold and unflinching than the bars that separated them earlier, a barrier this time of Jeonghan’s own making. Slowly, Jeonghan tips his head back to rest against the wall behind him, letting out a long breath; it does not catch in his lungs too badly, only triggering a mild rumbling cough. Minghao’s hand resumes its movement over his chest, calming as it eases away the pain, a balm of warmth and comfort.

An ugly feeling is lodged there, beside the lingering pain of his attack, beneath Minghao’s gentle hand. Jeonghan has felt uneasy since his waking here in this cellar, but it is only now, with Minghao so close to him and a moment to live in that seems strangely removed from the fear of their current circumstances, made illogically safe by the mere fact of Minghao’s proximity, that Jeonghan realizes how angry he feels.

He is angry, specifically, at Minghao.

“Why did you leave?” he asks, his eyes opening to stare unseeingly at cold stone. He does not look at Minghao; he cannot. He needs to hear this, to question and probe and probably yell and scold and perhaps confess, but he cannot look at Minghao while he listens to him say that he left because Jeonghan is more than he can handle after all, that staying by his side is not worth the heartache, that there is nothing Jeonghan can give him that can ever replace what he wants most.

Jeonghan is certain that Minghao loves him. During their dance, he saw it in Minghao’s eyes: Minghao loves him. And yet Minghao walked away, perhaps because of love, because Jeonghan is unable to act on his own feelings and staying will doom them both to a lifetime of wanting and never having, of belonging to other people, of lives that intersect less and less when Jeonghan makes a good match and has a husband at his side to bolster the coffers and the army and his own reputation.

But Jeonghan does not care if it is difficult. He does not care if it is impossible, if it hurts like dying every morning he wakes up with someone else at his side. He wants Minghao to _stay_.

Minghao has said nothing, holding himself still as cut marble, his expression shielded by the darkness. He shakes his head, just barely, in the periphery of Jeonghan’s vision, hardly seeming to move at all when he does.

Jeonghan scowls at him, finally turning to face him again. “No,” he demands, “you must tell me. You must say it. You said you would spare me that – do not. I do not wish to be spared, I want you to _say it_.”

“I cannot,” Minghao whispers. His hand is warm on Jeonghan’s chest; he seems to have forgotten he left it there. “Sire, I – Jeonghan, please. I cannot. You know why.”

Jeonghan wants nothing more in the world than he wants to hear Minghao say the words aloud, to claim Jeonghan’s heart out in the open, the one Jeonghan gave to him long ago, but.

No matter how much Jeonghan wants this, he has ever been unable to force Minghao’s hand. He cajoles, he bargains, he wheedles and pleads and argues, but he never forces. It is too horrifying to even consider, the notion of demanding this from Minghao.

He closes his eyes, protecting himself from the hazy image of Minghao crouched beside him in the dark, the lines of his body suggesting his facial expression even without light to see it by because Jeonghan knows him as he knows no one else – as he has never wanted to know anyone else.

“I will not ask you to stay, then, if we escape this place,” Jeonghan says quietly. His fingers press into the cold metal of the cup in his hands, wishing it was Minghao’s hand he was holding. “Though you know I am nothing without you.”

“That is not true,” Minghao protests, his voice pitched low, matched to Jeonghan’s as he matches Jeonghan in everything, following or guiding him always, never farther away than the distance Jeonghan can span with his outstretched hand – but for no longer than it takes them to get out of here. The loss may shatter Jeonghan completely. “Jeonghan,” Minghao murmurs, shifting closer, his warmth radiating outward to Jeonghan as their shoulders brush, Minghao’s knee pressing against his uninjured thigh. “Jeonghan, you think I am your strength, but you are mine. You have always been the strong one between us; you have always been the one who knows what to do and carries the resolve to do it. I am only the man I am – less than half the man you are – because I have had you to follow.”

Jeonghan shakes his head. “I am the crown and you are the sword, Minghao,” he reminds him. “You bear the strength I lack. Who will claim me as king when I cannot lift a weapon to defend myself?”

“I will,” Minghao says fiercely. His fingers curl against Jeonghan’s shirt, and then shift, his hand moving over to press his palm flat above Jeonghan’s heart. “You are the only king I will follow, the only one I will bow to. You saved me, seven years ago, and I have spent every day since trying to be worthy of the one I serve. You do not even –” He cuts himself off, his head jerking to the side to avoid Jeonghan’s eyes. What little Jeonghan can see of his face in the dark is tense and unhappy.

“I do not what?” Jeonghan asks. He lifts his hands, bound together still, and seizes Minghao’s in both his own, holding him there over his heart. “What, Minghao?”

“I am not who you think I am, Sire,” Minghao whispers. He tries to pull away, but Jeonghan holds him fast. He looks away. When he continues, his voice is so soft and jagged Jeonghan struggles to hear and understand him, despite the otherwise complete silence of the room. “You brought me into your employ seven years ago, but it was under false pretenses,” he whispers. “You look at me as your protector, your savior even, but the truth could not be further from your eyes. I am not the Whisper in the Dark.”

Jeonghan’s brow furrows. His fingers flex around Minghao’s hand and wrist, worrying at the skin. “What?” he asks stupidly, feeling lost. “What do you mean by that? Of course you are – you are the Southlands’ Sorrow, my right hand, the –”

Minghao shakes his head again, and Jeonghan falls silent. “The man you think I am is dead, Sire,” he says lowly. “He was thrown from a horse on my master’s farm while trying to escape the soldiers who chased him. When they arrived and found the body, found the evidence of who he was, they decided that a corpse was not enough to assuage the peoples’ bloodlust after so many deaths. They needed someone to hang.”

The pieces want to connect in Jeonghan’s head, but they don’t. It does not make sense.

“But you have served as my bodyguard for years,” Jeonghan protests. “You put down assassination attempts, culled the whisperers from the court. You are telling me now that you are – what? A farmhand?”

“A blacksmith’s apprentice,” Minghao says, gaze downcast, his hand limp in Jeonghan’s hold. “The smithy was attached to the farm. I tended the horses as well. I had never held a sword in my life but to sharpen it before you gave me pardon and position at your side. I –” he looks up, finally, and his eyes are bright in the darkness, “I am grateful, Sire. I would have been hanged on the evidence they ascribed to me if you had not claimed me then. I learned to be what you needed me to be in gratitude, and it is in gratitude that I have served you ever since. I meant no deception, but I could not tell you the truth. I hope you can understand.”

Jeonghan does not understand. This does not make sense. Minghao is a notorious murderer and thief. Minghao killed dozens of people before he was sixteen; a monster the likes of which has not been seen since the days of the kings and queens of old, when blood was traded as currency in exchange for land, for power, for love. Minghao is a branded killer, his crimes seared into his flesh, and lives only because when they wrapped the noose around his neck Jeonghan conscripted him to his own service instead, determined to make the most feared man in his kingdom kneel before him so that all others might kneel as well – if not to Jeonghan’s might, then to the might he wields by proxy. He had thought it a mark of penitence that Minghao took so easily to his new life … it seems Jeonghan is a bigger fool than he ever could have foreseen.

“Sire,” Minghao murmurs. His fingers scratch lightly at Jeonghan’s chest, catching at the fabric as he curls them into a loose fist. “I am sorry. I am so sorry.” He bows his head, slumped low before Jeonghan, as though begging forgiveness.

But – why?

“You are telling me,” Jeonghan says slowly, “that you have killed no one? Not ever?”

Minghao’s shoulders tense, but otherwise he remains still. “Only once, Sire,” he whispers. “Four years ago, on the road, when you were attacked in the open. I had no choice; they were too aggressive and too many to risk taking down non-lethally. Your safety has always been my absolute priority.”

“Other than that, though,” Jeonghan presses, something building inside him. “When courtiers went missing – the ones who spoke behind my back and undermined me to the court?”

“I sent them away, Sire,” Minghao says, holding himself rigid as though preparing for a blow, “like common thieves. I disguised them and placed them on boats to the south, to the work camps in Yeasrah. I would not have done it if I could not be certain they would not come back; everyone thought they were dead, and I made certain they could contact no one.”

There is a lightness spreading in Jeonghan’s chest, originating where he holds Minghao’s hand against his heart. The corners of his lips are turning up of their own volition and he makes no attempt to stop them.

“So what you are saying, Minghao,” he says, forcing his tone to be measured, refusing to cave to his excitement until he is absolutely sure of its justification, “is that you are _not_ the Southlands’ Sorrow, not my Whisper in the Dark, nothing but my loyal bodyguard and companion all these seven years with no blood on your hands but that which you could not help in defense of my life?”

“Yes, Sire,” Minghao whispers. “I am sorry for deceiving you.”

Jeonghan laughs. Minghao flinches, and Jeonghan hauls him closer by his arms, pulling him to sit up and lean into Jeonghan’s space, holding onto him tightly until there is no air between them. He cannot wrap his arms around Minghao as he would like, with his hands chained together, but he grips the front of his shirt in a death hold so that he cannot move away. Minghao is still, frozen in his embrace, his hands resting lightly on Jeonghan’s chest, one still tangled in the fabric over Jeonghan’s heart.

“Minghao,” Jeonghan breathes, pressing his face to the side of Minghao’s neck, inhaling the familiar scent of him. “Minghao, _thank you_.”

“Sire?” Minghao asks, bewildered and hesitant. He makes no move to draw away, though. Jeonghan’s shirt pulls tighter across his chest as Minghao’s fingers curl more firmly around it.

“I love you,” Jeonghan tells him, blunt and full-hearted. “I love you, Minghao, and I am allowed to tell you now because there is nothing to keep us apart anymore.”

“I – Jeonghan,” Minghao says, “I do not –”

“I love you, Minghao,” Jeonghan says again, giddy with the release of it, the rush of it finally being out in the open. “I love you, I love you, I love you. I have always loved you, or nearly, but I was afraid. I was so afraid. We do not need to be afraid anymore.”

“Nothing has changed, Sire,” Minghao protests, but his heart is not in it – Jeonghan can hear it in his voice, can feel it in the subtle tremble of his fingers against Jeonghan’s chest. “I am still as I was in the eyes of everyone but you.”

“But not in my eyes,” Jeonghan says, gripping him more fiercely. “I could not justify to myself marrying you when I believed you had done as I thought you had. I loved you still, but I could not pledge myself to you under the eyes of the gods and my people. Now, though, there is nothing to stop us. Minghao,” he pulls back but does not let go, does not loosen his grip, “marry me.”

He wishes he could see the nuances of Minghao’s expression right now. He can see his wide eyes glint in the faint light, and he can see the line of his jaw where it hangs open ever so slightly, and he can imagine the rest, but he wants to _see_ it. He wants to see Minghao completely, now that he is allowed to look. He wants to look at Minghao and never look away, never look at another face again.

And he _can_. He can have this. _They_ can have this.

“Jeonghan,” Minghao says, short of breath, fingers going lax in their hold – Jeonghan grabs them, releasing his own grip on Minghao to keep Minghao’s hands pressed against his chest.

“Marry me, Xu Minghao, be my prince, stand by my side now and always, my right hand and counsel in the light,” Jeonghan pleads, leaning forward, feeling desperate in more ways than one – desperate for Minghao’s reply, desperate to see his face, desperately happy. He may die in this cellar waiting for his mother’s final verdict on his own worthlessness in her eyes, but he will have _this_. He will have _Minghao_, and that is worth –

That is worth _everything_.

“Jeonghan,” Minghao says, like a breath, like a prayer. His eyes dart across Jeonghan’s face, seeking a lie where none exists. Jeonghan lets him look, waits for him now like he has always waited, hoped, wanted. When the reply comes, it is all the sweeter for the waiting. “Jeonghan,” Minghao says, reverent and adoring as he never sounds, never allows himself to sound surely, “Jeonghan, _yes_.”

And Jeonghan – he does not kiss him then. He surges forward, his eyes on the portion of Minghao’s face he thinks holds his lips, ecstatic as Minghao tilts his head to meet him, and then … he stops. He pauses, their mouths only an inch apart, held back by something nagging at the back of his mind.

“Jeonghan?” Minghao asks, holding still, watching him with heavy eyes – with wanting eyes.

Jeonghan does not want it to be like this. He does not want their first kiss to feel as though it might be the last. He does not want a beginning that feels like an ending, or even the fear of one.

He wants to kiss Minghao in the sunlight – in the dark too, but the kind they share beneath silken covers or diamond stars, holding each other close with no chains or terror clinging to them. He wants to kiss Minghao and for it to feel like freedom after too long imprisoned by the duality of his own desire and his belief in Minghao’s impossibility. He wants to kiss Minghao, but not like this.

“Let’s wait,” he says, soft and secret, pressing in to touch their foreheads together instead of their lips. “I don’t want to kiss you here. Not for the first time.”

Minghao understands him – he always understands him – and nods slightly, careful not to dislodge Jeonghan’s forehead from his own. “When we are away, then,” he agrees quietly.

“When we are away,” Jeonghan echoes. “I will kiss you senseless.”

“I look forward to it, my prince,” Minghao says, a smile in his voice that Jeonghan cannot see but can feel in the air between them. It matches the giddiness in his own chest.

“As do I,” he returns, grinning, holding Minghao closer still, as close as he can, “my heart.”

~~~

Their escape plan, in the end, is simple in its design. They agree that Jeonghan will play at being unconscious, and, when Minghao convinces one of their kidnappers to come inside the cell, he will attack and try to take the man hostage. Jeonghan will get to the door and keep it open and otherwise stay out of the way of the fighting. Jeonghan would be more resentful of his limited role, but he sees the utility of it: this is not a false fight, a drill where his opponent is invested in not harming him; this is a fight for their lives, and Jeonghan lacks the training to make himself useful here.

They decide to put the plan into action as soon as possible, for fear of running out of time when the Queen’s response arrives, should it be unfavorable. Jeonghan arranges himself in the corner, slumped over to look as sickly as he can make himself, while Minghao poses beside him, his chains twisted tight between his hands.

Minghao shouts for help, likely repeating whatever he had called earlier that made them bring him water and put them into one cell. It only takes a moment for the door to open and, in a stroke of luck that must mean the gods are on their side, a single man comes down to check on them.

Jeonghan only barely restrains his smile, letting his eyes slip closed as the light approaches them.

Minghao yells at the man, argues with him, and convinces him surprisingly quickly to refill the cup for Jeonghan, else he wants the crown prince’s death upon his own head. The man opens the cell door to retrieve the cup, which Minghao rolls over to him, keeping his focus visibly on Jeonghan’s limp form, and backs away to the stack of crates while watching Minghao warily. He sets his candle down atop one of the crates and then reaches over to remove the lid from a jug Jeonghan had not noticed before.

As soon as he glances down, Minghao strikes.

It is over more quickly than Jeonghan can sit up to watch it happen, the first of their captors sprawled across the floor and Minghao crouched over him, carefully removing his forearm from the man’s windpipe. The man looks dead, but the relief that flashes across Minghao’s face when he presses two fingers to the felled man’s neck informs Jeonghan otherwise. It is incredible that Jeonghan never realized Minghao’s true nature before now – he has ever been averse to killing people, at least where Jeonghan could see. He had assumed it was in deference to Jeonghan’s own distaste for bloodshed; now he knows that is a trait they share.

“We must move quickly,” Minghao murmurs lowly, looking up at Jeonghan. “They will be suspicious when he does not return.”

“So much for taking him hostage,” Jeonghan comments, standing with some difficulty and crossing the small space to stand over the unconscious man as well. He kicks at his side, scowling at the memory of one of their captors doing the same to Minghao not long ago. It sends a flair of pain up his leg, which is unsteady but not incapable of bearing his weight; it is well worth it.

“He was stronger than me,” Minghao says, regretfully. “I knew I would not be able to control him, and if he got loose it would make our escape even more difficult.”

“He was stronger, yet you stand here before me and he does not,” Jeonghan says drily.

“Strength is merely one measure of a person,” Minghao says, staring back at him. The lines of his face are serious in the candlelight, his eyes holding Jeonghan in place. “It is not the full measure.”

As always, Jeonghan feels as though Minghao sees right through him to his most vulnerable places. It is a heady thing, to be known as thoroughly as Minghao knows him, heady and frightening. Jeonghan cannot bring himself to mind, though.

Now that there is light, Jeonghan can study Minghao’s face in full. The damage is not as bad as he had feared – there are cuts and bruises aplenty, but nothing that looks life-threatening. His clothes are dirtied and torn in places, but Minghao does not move as though he is grievously injured, and Jeonghan is choosing to take that at face value for now; they will have time to tend to each other’s wounds later, when they are safely back in the palace.

Once he is satisfied that Minghao is in no immediate danger he has neglected to mention, Jeonghan turns his attention to their escape plan. They need a new one.

He runs a hand over the crate at the top of the pile, the wood rough beneath his fingers and the palm of his hand. Minghao watches him, waiting for Jeonghan’s signal. Jeonghan is the strategist of the two of them, by birthright and disposition, though he has always thought they work best as a team. He rubs at the wood grain, thinking.

They have wooden crates, chains on their hands, a candle, and a cup. That is not much to go on.

However.

“This wood is very dry,” Jeonghan muses, fussing with it in earnest now. It splinters easy when he finds a loose spear of it and pulls. He glances at the candle, burning diligently in its small holder.

Minghao follows his gaze. “I could carry it up the stairs after we light it,” he suggests, his eyes darting around the room as though he is already envisioning it. “So that we can get it properly burning first. It will make a good distraction, at least, while you get outside and find the horses. They left them tied up not far from the door last night, and there is no barn that I saw, so it should be easy for you to spook the others and take one for yourself.”

“Two,” Jeonghan corrects him. “One for each of us.” When it looks as though Minghao might protest, Jeonghan cuts him off preemptively. “You promised to marry me, remember?” he says. “And you have already broken one promise to me; you cannot afford to break another.”

“What promise?” Minghao asks, sounding confused.

“You promised to stay,” Jeonghan says. He smiles, trying to keep the mood light, but a tremble sneaks its way into his voice all the same, selling him out.

Minghao’s expression falls, his eyes wide. Jeonghan waves him off, laughing, blinking to dispel the sudden build of tears they have no time for. They are pointless tears anyway – Minghao is staying now, whatever he thought he had to do before. They will discuss what he was thinking and how wrong he was later; for now, they must ensure that there is a later and that they will be alive to meet it.

“I am sorry, Jeonghan,” Minghao says, low and serious. He dips his head. “I thought it was for the best. I thought I had ruined everything when I almost kissed you, and I –”

“No time, Minghao,” Jeonghan chides him, smiling more honestly now. “You can beg my forgiveness later, when we are in a position to make the endeavor more fun for both of us. Right now, we need to start a fire.”

Minghao does not argue with him. He gives Jeonghan one last apologetic look, and then he picks up the candle, passing it to Jeonghan so that he can tear the lid off the crate it was resting on. Inside is a collection of fabrics – fine silks, mostly, most probably a shipment intercepted and stolen. How perfect.

They drop the entire candle in after Jeonghan carefully lights the silk in multiple places, just to be certain to burns well. When the fire has risen to a healthy crackle, the sides of the box beginning to smoke and blacken – a matter of a few moments, fortunately, Jeonghan and Minghao both aware that they have no time to lose – Minghao lifts it awkwardly, his arms encumbered by the chain, and climbs the stairs two at a time. Jeonghan trails him, clutching the metal cup in one hand just in case he has a chance to get a hit in.

He doesn’t. When Minghao emerges into the main floor of the house, lifting the crate high with a shout, the room immediately erupts into chaos. Minghao throws the crate at the table three of the men were sitting at, the weight of it crushing the poorly constructed furniture and pinning all three of them for a moment, and in the next breath he is turning, wrapping the chain around his wrist as he moves, and barreling into the remaining adversary.

Jeonghan wants to help, but he knows he would be in the way – and the three men will only be burdened by the burning box and table for so long: by that time, Jeonghan must have the horses ready so that he and Minghao can get out of here.

He ducks past the whirlwind of Minghao and the other man’s blows, throwing the front door open and dropping his would-be weapon to run dead ahead when he catches sight of the horses. They are tied to a hefty fallen tree branch that has been laid across the ground, long tethers keeping the horses from going far. Jeonghan sets about releasing the nearest one quickly, his fingers fumbling with the knot on its halter. The horse dances in place, tossing its head unhelpfully, and Jeonghan runs a hand along its neck to sooth it to no avail. The chains are spooking it, he realizes, but there is no help for that so he doesn’t bother trying to be nonthreatening. He does not have the time to make friends.

As he is untying the second horse, the first sent away with a firm smack to its rump, he hears a shout from the house and looks over his shoulder, still tugging at it even as his eyes skitter away, and sucks in a breath when he sees one of the men come flying out of the door, sighting on Jeonghan immediately and making for him at speed.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jeonghan mutters, trying to get the knot loose, beginning to panic – and then Minghao is there.

Jeonghan does not see what he does, he only knows that one moment he is about to be assailed by well over six feet of muscle and fury, and the next Minghao is at his side, breathing heavily as he goes to work at the next horse over. There is fresh blood on him now, on his face and his hands and the chain on his wrists. But he is alive, and they are so close to escape.

There are six horses, and the two of them are able to make quick work of releasing the remaining three and sending them off, each taking the reins of one of the last two once they free them as well.

Jeonghan goes to mount his, Minghao already in the saddle and watching the house warily as the flames that engulf it rise higher and higher, but gasps as he puts pressure on his left leg to lift himself up and is reminded of his injury. Minghao glances at him sharply, his leg halfway swung over the horse’s back already, but Jeonghan shakes his head. He grits his teeth and uses his right leg to jump and pull himself up as much as he can, pain still lancing through him when he fits his left foot into the stirrup to get himself the rest of the way up.

They are just in time – as Jeonghan turns his horse, facing them east, the direction Minghao thinks the castle lies in, four figures come pouring out of the burning house, some looking more alert than others.

“Go!” Jeonghan shouts, spurring his horse into a gallop and watching Minghao do the same, riding slightly behind him, no doubt so that he can break away and intercept any who come after them.

They ride hard and fast, the pace hell on Jeonghan’s thigh but he dares not slow down. It is only after they approach the river that Jeonghan feels safe enough to let the horse canter instead of run, Minghao’s steed slowing to match pace and come alongside him.

Jeonghan is breathing hard, even though he is not the one who has been running for nearly twenty minutes. Minghao is watching him worriedly, but Jeonghan assures him with a grin; he is not about to have an attack. After a minute, he is able to regulate his breathing, relieved when he draws in a full breath without difficulty. Minghao is beside him, examining his face for signs of distress; Jeonghan smiles at him, more easily this time.

“Well,” he says, “that was most diverting, but I think I would like to go home now.”

Minghao laughs. It makes Jeonghan feel manic, almost, with glee – he so rarely hears Minghao laugh, he is nearly always so serious and distant from Jeonghan. Not anymore. The sound is more of a giggle than a laugh, even, painfully charming as it lodges itself in Jeonghan’s heart.

“Yes,” Minghao says happily, “I am most eager to get you somewhere I know you will be safe. And to treat your injury.”

“And your injuries,” Jeonghan says. He eyes Minghao, the cuts and bruises on him looking more stark in the bold daylight of midmorning. “You are in dire need of a bath, sir.”

“No more than you are,” Minghao returns. He gestures towards Jeonghan’s cheek; Jeonghan reaches up and wipes at it, his hand coming away dirty – dirtier, rather. Again, Minghao laughs, and Jeonghan’s grin feels as though it will split his face.

“Perhaps we can bath together,” Jeonghan suggests coyly, just to see the way Minghao’s ears flush bright red. He is not disappointed.

“I – Jeonghan, we –” Minghao fumbles, his horse slowing as he pulls himself back, tugging on the reins perhaps unintentionally. “I –”

“In the river, Minghao,” Jeonghan calls out, outpacing him as he continues towards the river, which they are nearly upon now.

From behind him, he hears Minghao make some kind of noise of assent and, in another moment, he has rejoined Jeonghan – just in time for them to both dismount and walk their horses up to the edge of the water. Jeonghan’s thigh makes its displeasure at bearing weight known again, but he covers the discomfort with a smile as Minghao circles his horse to walk at Jeonghan’s side. Minghao, of course, sees through him and wraps his horse’s lead around his wrist so that he can hold Jeonghan’s arm with both chained hands, taking some of Jeonghan’s weight onto himself. Jeonghan allows it, if only for the way it presses them so closely together.

At the edge of the water, they let the horses go, their tethers dragging on the ground, so that the animals can drink and the two of them can crouch down and stick their hands in the current, scooping handfuls of water up to rinse their faces. It feels heavenly. Jeonghan had not realized how filthy he felt until he began to feel clean again.

He glances over at Minghao, who is scrubbing at his injuries with his wet shirt, bunched up in his hand. He cannot get the shirt off over the chains around both his wrists, and so it is bundled up around the metal; it looks rather ridiculous, but. Well. It also very much does not. It is quite scandalous – Jeonghan, the crown prince, standing at the side of a river with his shirtless, gorgeous bodyguard, thinking about kissing him.

Gods, he wants to kiss him.

First, however, he waits for Minghao to put his shirt back on. Their first kiss is not about fear and death and last chances, nor is it about lust and physical desire, though Jeonghan feels those things keenly. Their first kiss is about so much more than that; it is about the way Jeonghan has loved Minghao for years in the secret places of his heart, so deeply it seeped into the foundations of his very being, and the fact that now, finally, at last, he can express that love physically, out in the open. He is allowed. He is fairly certain he is allowed.

“Can I kiss you?” Jeonghan asks abruptly, his eyes caught on the way water droplets cling to the ends of Minghao’s hair. It looks good dark, but he may ask Junhui what he did to make it the color it was last night. Maybe there are other colors they could try, too, both of them. Jeonghan wants Minghao in every color he can get him.

Minghao freezes, his head still caught in his shirt, and then slowly pulls the garment the rest of the way on. It is wet, still indecent, but Jeonghan is willing to ignore that – as long as he does not look, this is not a moment about lust.

He can look later.

Minghao meets his gaze and holds it, his eyes glittering with something huge and heavy that Jeonghan can identify easily now, something he used to catch only glimpses of and wonder at. It is love.

Jeonghan keeps his stare steady, making certain that, as Minghao looks at him, he can read the same in Jeonghan’s eyes as well.

“Of course you can,” Minghao says, finally, his voice like spun glass – delicate and fragile and precious. “But should we wait? I mean, you said you wanted to marry me.” He licks his lips – indecent, distracting – and turns his head like he wants to look away, but he only goes so far before he comes back, his gaze never leaving Jeonghan. Perhaps he is hypnotized, too. “That is, if you still want that. If you meant it.”

“I have wanted that since I was nineteen, Hao,” Jeonghan tells him, the honesty liberating. “And I have wanted to kiss you for longer than that. Although –” He turns to look over his shoulder, breaking away from Minghao’s eyes to do it, looking beyond the river, into the woods on the other side where he thinks he remembers a village lying. “How far to the nearest town, do you think?”

Minghao glances across the river as well. “Not far,” he says, sounding slightly confused but not unhappily so. “With the horses, even at a walk, maybe ten minutes. It’s called Brambleby.”

“Is it of decent size?” Jeonghan asks, a plan forming in his mind.

“Decent, yes,” Minghao affirms. “Not large.”

“Large enough for a temple?” Jeonghan checks, a grin growing on his face.

Minghao clearly catches on in that moment, an answering smile blossoming as he looks at Jeonghan with eyes alight. “Yes, definitely,” he says, taking a shuffling step forward, towards Jeonghan but not quite into his space.

Jeonghan closes the distance.

“Then, Xu Minghao,” he murmurs, reaching up to cup the back of Minghao’s neck, his palm brushing over the brand there. His other hand follows it, bound by the chain, and rests at the top of Minghao’s breastbone, fingers dipping just beneath the fold of his shirt. The feel of the brand, rough against his skin, does not make his heart sink, as the thought of it always has before; instead, he feels grateful, selfishly so, that it brought Minghao to him. He leans closer, so close they are practically sharing oxygen as Minghao meets him, their faces only a breath apart. “Marry me now. Today. In Brambleby – before my parents learn of our intentions and stop us. Become my prince.”

“As you have ever been mine, Jeonghan,” Minghao promises, dipping to touch their foreheads together, a third attempt at this resurrected moment. This is, by far, Jeonghan’s favorite version yet.

“Then, since we will be married soon enough, I do not think there is benefit in waiting,” Jeonghan says quietly. His fingers rub at Minghao’s skin, warm and alive beneath his hands, as he grips him at the neck and, with his other hand, seeks his hand to hold, forgetting their circumstances for a moment and tugging uselessly at the limit of the chain. Minghao catches him though, always catches him, lifting his hands as well and twining their fingers together, pressing close and bringing his free hand up to brush feather-light against Jeonghan’s chin.

Jeonghan breathes in. He tips his head up, his eyes slipping closed, as he sees Minghao match him, both of them moving as one to draw closer, closer, closer, closer –

To touch.

To hold.

To _stay_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be complete, art needs to be seen, experienced, witnessed. So – thank you for reading my fic. I’d love it if you left a comment so I know you engaged with it, because that truly is the goal of every written work – to be engaged with – and it’s always wonderfully gratifying and vitalizing to get confirmation of that from the reader.


End file.
